The Case of the Headmaster's Terrier
by Eyebrows2
Summary: Unhappy schoolboy Sherlock Holmes is attracting trouble and torment he does not deserve. When he is blamed for the headmaster's dog disappearing, everything becomes too much, and he takes matters into his own hands. Please R&R!
1. Chapter 1: Bully

**The Case of the Headmaster's Terrier**

Chapter 1: Bully

They were starting again.

Stubbs and his eight grovelling acolytes slowly surrounded me in the rugby field. I knew I should not have ventured into such an open place, but I was immersed in a novel Mycroft had sent me, and had become irritated by Everett and Reynolds attempting to snatch it from me as I read in the quadrangle. They were a little younger than my twelve year old self, and posed no threat, but they were well aware that Professor Rangaford was lurking nearby, and that he would gleefully seize on any opportunity to punish me had I retaliated. Besides, they were an irritating distraction. I relocated behind the screening line of trees to the rugby field, fully intending to trounce one or other of them if they followed me here, where there were no witnesses. I settled back upon the grass, and was soon caught up by the adventures within the pages of my book. It was then that Stubbs' gang emerged from the trees, and I cursed myself. I was usually too cunning to allow myself to be accosted. Stubbs tossed Everett a coin, and I realised, with a flush of anger, that they must have planned this. I warily rose to my feet, replacing the book in my jacket pocket, and facing Stubbs.

"What do you want?"

"Just to pass the time of day with you, Holmes. And to find out how it was that Brentwood here was overheard by Matron when he went to have a little word with young Smithson in the hospital wing".

"You mean when he went to terrify Smithson into saying nothing about how you made him eat that rancid pie to amuse you. You made him really ill, you know."

"A little upset stomach, that's all. How do _you_ know anything about it?"

"You have a pattern. A little new kid starts school and cheeks you when you pick on him. You retaliate. Smithson was fagging for Brentwood, and then he gets sickness and diarrhoea. I found the crumbs by the fire place in your study, and they still stank. You're disgusting, you know."

"What were you doing in my study, you frig-splash?"

"Tidying." I answered, with an angelic expression. "Your fag was off sick, and I offered to take over his work. Frig-splash is a very vulgar phrase, by the way. Obviously no amount of education can make you a gentleman, Brentwood." It was exceedingly foolish of me, as I knew Brentwood was morbidly sensitive about his new-money background, and this was a sure-fire way to goad him. His eyes narrowed, and I knew I was in for it.

"Now, Holmes," interrupted Stubbs with quiet menace, "that was silly, wasn't it? Almost as silly as landing Brentwood on the carpet by blabbing to Matron when she should have been having her afternoon nap in her room. How did you get her to hide and listen, by the way? She'd usually just fly off the handle and not have any proof."

"I dropped her a note that Mrs Nettles was stealing her cherry brandy and she could catch her at it. She hates Mrs Nettles as much as the rest of us do, and would love a chance to see her turned off." I shrugged, and attempted to look nonchalant. There was no point denying that I had got Brentwood caught, might as well infuriate them and be hung for a sheep.

"Right!" snarled Stubbs, "Who's going to hold him whilst Brentwood and I thrash him?" They had a number of giggling volunteers, and, although I attempted to fight back, I was easily overwhelmed. Brentwood removed his belt, wrapped it around his fist, and swung it experimentally. He then slashed at me again and again with it, alternating with Stubbs punching me in the stomach and ribs. I gritted my teeth and endured at first, but I was only twelve years old after all, and was soon crying heartily. Then, they suddenly released me, laughing, long before I had expected my ordeal to be over. I flew at Stubbs in fury, taking him aback, and managing to land a competent punch upon his jaw.

"SHERLOCK HOLMES!!" My heart sank into my boots as I heard the voice of Professor Rangaford. The chemistry master hated me to the depths of his soul. The rumour was he had once been sweet on my mother and at odds with my father, but, whatever the reason, he persecuted me with the zeal of a fanatic. Stubbs clutched his jaw and adopted an expression of mingled shock and injury.

"I don't like to snitch Sir, but I'm sure you saw that. I'm afraid little Holmes here objected to my scolding him that he hasn't tidied Brentford's study properly – he left pie crumbs all over the hearth. I think he's got a bit swollen headed by winning a few fights in the boxing ring."

"That's not true, Sir! They were beating me up – look!" I lifted my shirt and jacket to show the fresh welts upon my body. Stubbs glared at me furiously. Professor Rangaford shrugged, and said silkily

"I have no doubt you deserved it, Holmes. Fighting is still not acceptable. You will accompany me to my office immediately, and I will demonstrate to you what happens to little boys who consider themselves above the rules." The other boys sniggered, and Rangaford turned coldly to them.

"You will also be dealt with, Stubbs and Brentford. Report to my office after supper. The first year's retorts require cleaning, and, as you insist on behaving like small children, you may serve detention like them." I felt their burning resentment as I trailed away behind Rangaford, and was peripherally aware that they would stock up this insult as well. I was more concerned for the moment about my reception in Rangaford's office. Sure enough, when we arrived, he withdrew a long cane with which I was dismally familiar from the umbrella stand by his door, and motioned for me to take up my position leaning over the sofa.

"Ten of the best, I think, Boy."

"Ten, Sir? Oh please, no Sir. They were honestly beating me up, I swear it! I was just defending myself. It's not fair."

"Let's make that twelve, shall we?"

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_It really isn't fair, is it? Ah well, I suppose Victorian boarding schools were notoriously nasty. _

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	2. Chapter 2: The Chemistry Master

**The case of the Headmaster's Terrier**

Chapter 2: The Chemistry Master

I left Rangaford's office sobbing uncontrollably for the second time that day, with an injunction to "stop snivelling". Clutching my posterior, I fled up the stairs to my dormitory. I could not face supper – not with the gloating faces of Stubbs and his gang, and not with my overwhelming sense of misery. I rummaged in my trunk and withdrew the laudanum tincture, another gift from Mycroft, which I and my dorm-fellows had frequently used before under similar circumstances, took a long draft, and flung myself face down upon the bed, the cool pillow, refreshing against my hot cheeks, becoming soaked with tears.

I hated school. I had been here for three years – boys were accepted at a younger age than the customary thirteen – and they had recently been unutterably miserable. It hadn't been so at first. The younger boys were put in dormitories together, and, despite my slight prickliness, I made friends. I discovered a talent for boxing and fencing which gained me some admiration, and was good enough to be in the first teams for cricket and rugby. I excelled at several subjects, although was unable to overcome my boredom in others. My housemaster was a warm and kindly man, who took his pastoral _in loco parentis_ role seriously, evidently liked me, and would pass on articles he thought would interest me from periodicals he subscribed to, ruffling my hair as he did so, or invite myself and several of my cronies into his office to partake of hot crumpets as a treat. Mycroft was still in the upper school at the time, and despite his natural disinclination towards physical exertion, his sheer size was enough to put off most juvenile antagonists. He was also well connected, and his friends would look out for his scruffy little brother in his absence. I was considered a bright and engaging child by most of the masters, and although I was occasionally caned for mischievous or dilatory behaviour, it would rarely be more than two or three stripes. The situation begun to worsen when Mycroft left eighteen months ago. He and his cronies had occupied the top position of power at the school, and boys jostled for position as they left. Those that replaced them were of a different ilk – their dominance more through thuggery than force of personality and intellect. Stubbs, fifteen at the time, and built like a gorilla, was immediately acceptable to them. I had soon engaged his implacable enmity, by calling out taunts to him as he attacked a smaller child in the music room adjacent to the house common room, then turning on my heel with a whoop as he started towards me. He charged over the marbles I had lain on the common room floor, indistinct against the carpet, and fell heavily, allowing myself and the persecuted newcomer to make a giggling escape, and exposing him to gales of laughter from those large enough to risk it.

At first, my standing up to Stubbs made me something of a celebrity, but the boy I had rescued, Jones-Irving, was one of the first to do an about-face. His punishment from Stubbs and his growing gang for his unwitting part in the humiliation, was far worse than he would have received had I not intervened, and he railed against me for exposing him to their particular attention, and refused to speak to me again. Meanwhile, I seemed to be experiencing a lot of "accidental" fouls on the rugby pitch, or hard jostles on the corridor. My ink was knocked over, my nibs stolen, my night-shirts suspiciously stained. I found an angry hornet as I reached into my pencil case. I set up a trap, and was able to lead the history master into my dorm in time to catch Roberts, one of Stubbs particular sycophants, depositing a dead and stinking mouse into our ewer, the evening before a morning where I would have to be up first for a boxing match. Roberts was easily coerced into mentioning the mastermind of the scheme, and Stubbs shared his punishment. Stubbs persecution of me was notched up a scale. He neglected his usual duties of bullying a wide variety of victims, and concentrated upon me. Boys who showed me a kindness were dealt with harshly, otherwise they were largely left alone. My friends begun to shun me in public. My pride would not allow me to accept their attempts at private recompense, and I coldly rebuffed them. One friend, Epson, showed great loyalty to me, but he began to attract such grief for doing so that I made it my object to become estranged from him to protect him, and treated him so abominably that he eventually turned against me. Thus I went from being the child who initiated the pillow fights, or chattered about imaginary adventures after dark, to being the skulking creature who quietly got changed with his back to everybody, ignoring and being ignored, and blew out his candle to lie in lonely silence.

Midway through this transformation, Professor Rangaford arrived. He was a tall, thin, youngish man, with greasy black hair, a sallow complexion, and a hook nose. He dressed severely, abjuring the more usual tweeds and opting instead for a rusty black frock coat and trousers worn underneath his schoolmaster's robes. He had a peculiarly chilling black-eyed gaze, and a line in velvety sarcasm, delivered in a low, mellifluous voice, that had the boys quaking with terror, particularly considering his ability to back it up with a flogging should he wish to. He not only took over as chemistry master, but also as my house master, kind old Dr Fotherington retiring. My misery took on a new zest. My every move was scrutinised, and punishment doled out at every opportunity. It did not help that he taught chemistry. This was perhaps my best subject, and my thwarting of his chances to humiliate me antagonised him, and further enraged him. He had hated me when I was a quiet, studious little boy who did not draw attention to himself. I responded to his attempts to undermine me by flinging myself into my chemistry work with renewed application, and becoming the brilliantly arrogant scholar he detested and resented all the more. I dropped a retort; I was beaten. I spoke out of turn, despite it being to answer the question being addressed to the class; I was beaten. I was kept behind after the lesson to scrub my desk, then ran in the corridors to avoid being late for my next class; I was beaten. I was late for my chemistry class because he had ordered me to fetch an arcane piece of equipment; I was beaten. I dropped crumbs in the common room, I made my bed untidily, I had my jacket buttoned incorrectly, I had dirty fingernails, I blotted my prep, I had not brushed my hair: I was beaten for all of these offenses and more. Rarely very hard, so that the headmaster might had noticed or intervened, but often enough that sitting down became a trying occupation.

Stubbs noticed and relished my treatment, and did his best to augment it. He and his gang frequently took the opportunity to add to my mistreatment, until I learned certain skills in keeping out of harms' way, and rarely allowed them to catch me. I continued to discover the means of subtle revenges, such as Brentwood's discovery by Matron, aided by my natural observational skills and intrinsic shrewdness. I avenged my classmates when they were victimised, even though they now passed me in the corridors and playground with lowered eyes. They rarely even spoke to me or included me on the sports fields, with the result that I was dropped from the first teams, and only continued to excel in individual sports. I went about, despite this, with my head held high, refusing to acknowledge to anybody the depths of my desolation. I was only on my own, as now, with no prying eyes or jeering tongues, that I gave in to my wretchedness. Then I was wretched indeed.

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_Ah, poor kid. Don't worry, I'm sure things will get better for him eventually. _

_I felt I had to introduce everybody to Rangaford after he almost made a cameo appearance in my other story, Hecate House, which I shall now get on with – I wanted to show why he was impressed on Holmes' memory and posterior. Does anybody notice anything slightly familiar about this greasy-haired Chemistry Master? Just a coincidence if you do, of course. _

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	3. Chapter 3: The lull before the storm

**The Case of the Headmaster's Terrier**

**Chapter 3: The lull before the storm**

The next morning it required all my resolution to leave my dormitory with my customary _sang froid_. I augmented my serene attitude by dressing with especial care, straightening my spine, and jutting my chin forward. I strolled down to breakfast with barely a limp to betray the intense pain still burning across my backside with every move. I spoke to nobody, but affected an abstracted air, as if I were preoccupied with higher concerns. I noticed (but pretended I didn't) that young Epson was still scrutinising me with a thoughtful air when he believed me to be otherwise absorbed. Perhaps my endeavour to alienate him entirely was not yet complete. I considered making an insulting move against him, but somehow the idea of anybody not entirely set on enmity towards me was so comforting I could not bring myself to go through with it. Instead, I feigned inattentiveness, as I masticated the lumpy glue passing as porridge in my bowl.

My lessons were relatively uneventful. I was complimented on my essay in history, mildly upbraided for my Greek work, and unchallenged by the mathematics class. Everett knocked my desk and upset my ink whilst redistributing our manuscripts, but I had coughed as I saw his approach reflected in the shiny surface of the master's desk, prompting the master to turn and observe him, then scold him for his clumsiness and order him to scrub the desk clean during our half holiday that afternoon.

Reynolds attempted to avenge his friend by plunging a compass into my arm in the corridor, but I disarmed him easily enough. I was not so lucky when Gordon, a large and athletic fourteen year old, swung his satchel to trip me – I landed heavily on my knees on the bare flagstones. However, this was benign enough, and I merely raised my eyebrows and remarked blandly "Almost as clumsy as your last performance on the cricket field", before dusting myself down and sauntering off.

For our half holiday, we were permitted to venture to the village. I felt in need of the consolation of the sweet shop, and fingered the shilling in my pocket lovingly. As I passed the quad in front of the school, a yapping assailed my ears, and Odysseus, the Headmaster's temperamental border terrier, scampered across the lawn, disreputable ears flying and tail wagging. Several of the other boys drew back warily – Odysseus was not an admirer of boys in general, and would display his white teeth to advantage if he felt his territory to be invaded. He was under the impression the entire school was his territory, and had chased more than one hapless youth up the large oak tree, or redesigned their trousers. However, I was privileged to have gained his affection, like Daniel, by removing a thorn from his paw, and sneaking him scraps from our meagre table. He was also deeply appreciative of my method of scratching behind his ears, and would close his eyes and make idiotic little grunts of bliss when I so obliged him. I greeted him in delight today, as his obvious adoration was balm to my forlorn soul. I dropped to my knees and fondled him as he nuzzled in close, licking my ear.

"Hello, Boy! Where have you been voyaging today then? Been to see Mrs Humphry's poodle have you? That's a boy, good boy, good old boy! No, don't lick my face, I don't like to imagine where you've been." The little dog seemed to sense my aching loneliness and misery, in that way animals sometimes have, and submitted to my cosseting with better grace than usual. I felt a slight easing of the constriction in my chest.

"HOLMES!" I jumped as Professor Rangaford's voice rang out across the quad, and felt most gratified when Odysseus' hackles rose and he growled threateningly as the master strode over to me.

"What do you think you are doing to the Headmaster's dog, Boy?"

"I was just making a fuss of him, Sir. He's a good dog."

"Are you quite sure you were not tormenting him?" Fortunately, it was an absurd question, as Odysseus was engaged in burying his snout into my pocket, tail wagging, and with the approach of the Headmaster, Professor Rangaford would be hard pressed to invent an excuse to punish me. Professor Wessex, the Headmaster, could be a kind and jovial enough man when in the right mood, and he was exuding bonhomie now.

"Well well! It's marvellous the way Odysseus has taken to you, Mr Holmes. You have quite a way with animals, evidently."

"Thank you, Headmaster. I am fond of dogs, Sir. I like Odysseus."

"The feeling is obviously mutual. Most unusual. I expect we shall not see _you_ retreating into the oak tree" said he, his eyes twinkling. His cavalier attitude to his pet's conduct towards his students sometimes caused little flurries of concern from the softer teachers, depending on how illustrious the latest victim, but Odysseus remained undisciplined.

"On your way then, my lad. I expect you will be off to purchase some tooth-rotting rubbish from Mrs Jones' emporium?" I grinned.

"Aniseed balls I think, Sir."

"Disgusting! Be off with you then, child."

"Thank you, Sir."

I resumed my course for the village. I took a secretive and circuitous route, in order to avoid the other boys. I purchased my aniseed balls and some treacle toffee, and purchased a hot meat pie, also begging a small bone for Odysseus from the cheerful butcher's. I then drank a mug of chocolate in the village's small cafe, choosing the smallest table in the corner. The proprietess liked me, and placed a generous dollop of cream in for me with a wink and smile. She even gave me a current bun, only slightly stale, knowing a small schoolboy's ravenous appetite would not disdain such a delicacy. I smiled my best polite-but-shy smile in return and gratified her by polishing off the offering in the twinkling of an eye. Her daughter, a buxom girl of sixteen, also bustled about the place, and I surreptitiously admired her form, not fully understanding the blush of pleasure it aroused in me as she fussed over me. I began to revive with this treatment, and to think perhaps the world was not such a dire place, and I set off back to the school with a lighter heart.

Odysseus was snuffling around near the boundary hedge as I returned. I gave him his bone, much to his approbation. I then returned to my dormitory, and elected to stay there reading my novel rather than return to the hostile environment of the common room. I wanted to eke out my unaccustomed sense of wellbeing as long as possible. I found my eyelids becoming heavy after the culinary delights of the day, and I fell asleep. I slept right through supper, and barely stirred when other boys began moving around in the dormitory. I did rouse myself enough to wash and change into my night shirt, and then snuggled back down under the blankets, and slept deeply all night.

The next morning, I noticed the Headmaster was absent from his habitual place at the breakfast table. This was not sufficiently unusual to arouse my attention. In between classes, I spotted him prowling around the grounds, Odysseus uncharacteristically absent from his heels. I hoped my canine friend was not unwell, and felt a momentary pang of worry that my bone may not have agreed with him. However, it was not until that evening that the true situation was revealed to me. Professor Rangaford entered as my form completed our prep, his face grim and set. He was carrying his dreaded cane, and I felt a sense of relief that a search of my conscience did not reveal any reason why I should be on its receiving end. My confidence was short lived.

"Sherlock Holmes. You will accompany me immediately." I gaped at him for a moment, then scrabbled to obey, without arguing, my mind racing to deduce what I had done, and my hands shaking. As we started off down the corridor, he clutched me by the collar, dragging me along roughly and half strangling me, before flinging me into his office, grasping the front of my shirt, and thrusting his face into mine, a snarl upon his face.

"Alright, you nasty, deceitful young sneak-thief. I will beat the answer out of you if you do not tell me immediately. Where is he?"

"Where is who, Sir?" I stammered in terror, "I don't know what you mean, Sir."

"Do not lie to me boy, or pretend to be more obtuse than you really are" he hissed, his low sibilant tones infinitely more dangerous than ranting or raving could ever be. "You are in for a flogging even if you tell me where you have hidden him, but God help you if you do not tell me... I shall flay you to within an inch of your life until I force the truth out of you, and you will squeal until they hear you in John O'Groats. What have you done with the Headmaster's terrier?"

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_Aw! And he'd had such a nice day. I have a feeling little Holmes is in line for some more unpleasantness, but there may be a mystery brewing. Thank you for reading, and please, please review! _


	4. Chapter 4: Oh where oh where

**The Case of the Headmaster's Terrier**

**Chapter 4: Oh where oh where has my little dog gone**

It was not a habit with me to gape dumbly, but I did so in response to Professor Rangaford's question.

"I have no idea where Odysseus is, Sir." I answered, looking straight into his eyes and pleading that he read the honesty in my expression. "I have not seen him since yesterday evening, when he was in the grounds."

"Aha! You confess you saw him yesterday evening?"

"Yes, Sir."

Rangaford looked momentarily nonplussed, as my frank admission seemed to throw him off track. Unfortunately, he quickly regained his composure, and fixed the threatening leer back in place.

"The dog was seen with you when you were molesting him in front of myself and the headmaster."

"I wasn't '_molesting'_ him!" I burst out indignantly, and unwisely, because it gave Rangaford an excuse to grab my scruff, twist me around, and give me two whacks with the cane. I glowered sullenly and fearfully, not daring to add any further words in my defence without permission.

"As I was saying," purred Rangaford "the creature was seen in your company, yesterday afternoon. You confess to the headmaster that you were purchasing aniseed balls, and a search of the village has confirmed that a little whelp meeting your description was buying bones at the butchers. You did not mention your intention to purchase bones, Holmes, none of the other boys saw you heading into, or coming home from, the village, and I'm sure you're aware that aniseed is used a lure for dogs, are you not?" His voice was a soft, soft whisper now. "So where did you lure him to?"

"I didn't! I saw him after I got back from the village, I got the bone when I bought a pie, I gave it to him after, I sat a while in Mrs Starkey's cafe, she can tell you I was there, I ate some of the aniseed balls on the way home, I've still got a few left, I always buy aniseed balls, you can ask Epson, he likes them too, I left Odysseus eating the bone by the South fence, he must have wandered home after." I gabbled, almost without drawing breath.

"Hmm. Why do you say that?" He was revelling in this.

"Say what, Sir? Please, I really don't understand."

"Why do you say that he must have returned home?"

"...I..."

Professor Rangaford smiled like a piranha contemplating a juicy toe. "You see, boy, no-one else saw the animal return. And yet _you_ appear to know that he did return."

"I just assumed he must have done – why would he not have, Sir?"

"What have I told you about never assuming?" the smile was stretching, pulling the skin tight over his cadaverous face. "Assuming is lazy guesswork. Such intellectual slothfulness would earn you a stripe in and of itself. Foolish and sloppy. Now what else do you think you might have done recently that has been foolish and sloppy, boy, not to mention criminal?"

I could only regard him helplessly, and shake my head in bewilderment. Professor Rangaford then crossed to his desk, and drew out, with a conjuror's flourish, a muddy pair of boots.

My boots.

Various fragments in my mind were beginning to piece themselves together to make a troubling whole. I recognised the mud. It was a rich, grassy manure that was reserved for the headmaster's precious rose bushes in the flowerbed beneath his ground floor study window. I knew I had not been walking in that flower bed. Therefore somebody else had worn my boots to trample beneath the headmaster's window. The headmaster's dog had disappeared. I was dreadfully implicated. A trick. A particularly mean-spirited trick, this, as breaking into the headmaster's study and stealing his dog was an exploit exceeding anything which would be shrugged off as schoolboy high spirits. I had reached this conclusion even before Rangaford began speaking again, echoing my thoughts.

"The mud on these boots comes from outside the headmaster's study window, Holmes. His window which was forced last night. His window which had muddy footprints upon the sill. We received a little tip-off that you may have been involved, and sure enough, we find your filthy boots beneath your bed. Looks as if your slovenly habits are getting you into hot water again, doesn't it? Except this time, I will not be so lenient. _Where – Is –_ _The – Dog?_" This last was spoken with his face thrust so close to mine, his long nose was almost touching me, forcing me to tilt my head away, shrinking back from him.

"I don't know where he is, Sir" I whispered "I promise it was not me who broke in to the study. I can prove it! Look at the...._OW! NO!!_"

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_Nasty, sadistic man! You should listen to young Mr. Holmes, I think he was about to say something important.... please read on to find out what.... and I love your reviews!_


	5. Chapter 5: Punishment and Crime

**The Case of the Headmaster's Terrier**

**Chapter 5: Punishment and Crime**

This was no ordinary flogging. The triumph of my entrapment seemed to have sparked a terrible blood-lust upon my form master, and he was indulging it with almost feral enthusiasm. My fingers were severely cut and bruised as I instinctively tried to protect myself. I tried to communicate the obvious observation about the boots, but coherence was impossible under these circumstances. The cane rose and fell, over and over again, with a sickening "_SWISH-THWACK!"_ each time. I was almost sick from the pain and terror of it all, as I wondered briefly whether he was going to lose his thin veneer of civilisation and control, and was genuinely going to kill me. Then it stopped. My strangled and increasingly panicked yells had brought the headmaster to investigate, and I fell, shuddering, to the floor as I was released.

"Tobias, what in the name of Christmas is going on in here?" began Professor Wessex, stopping as he saw me slump, my face awash with tears and snot. "Ah." He said, on beholding me. "Has he confessed, then?"

"I-i-it w-w-wasn't m-me, H-Headm-master" I stammered out, then cringed away, much to my self-disgust, as Rangaford turned back towards me. My head was whirling, I felt so sick. I retched once or twice, prompting one of the masters, I was not sure which, to shove a basin under my chin. I gulped down air, willing my racing heart to still and the room to stop spinning. A glass of water was thrust into my hand. My fingers were so sore and stiff from their mistreatment I could scarcely hold it, but by a supreme effort, I managed to transfer it to my mouth, and felt better for taking a cool draught. I was able to meet the Headmaster's eye, and say, with some composure

"It wasn't me who broke into your study, Sir. I think I can prove it."

"Do not try to inflict your poisonous lies upon the Headmaster, Holmes" snarled Rangaford.

"We shall allow the boy to speak" declared the Headmaster, in absentmindedly judicial tones. "I think he may be somewhat overawed by his present surroundings. We shall adjourn to my study; if you would be so kind as to join us, Professor Rangaford."

Scowling, the professor propelled me out of the door in the Headmaster's wake, still carrying my boots. I limped along the corridor and downstairs to the study. A housemaid was busy in a corner of the room, and the headmaster nodded for her to continue. He then waved me to a seat, which I lowered myself into extremely gingerly.

"Well then, young Holmes, what do you have to say for yourself?"

"The boots, Sir. Professor Rangaford is holding them."

"Do you deny that they are your boots?"

"No, Headmaster, they are mine."

"Come then, do you mean to tell me that this mud is from elsewhere in the grounds? Because I can tell you, I use this beautiful manure only on my rosebeds."

My mind almost stuttered for a moment over the incongruity of anybody describing decomposed excrement as beautiful, but I have never understood practical gardening. I passed over this irrelevance, and continued.

"I do not deny my boots must have been in your flowerbeds, Sir. However, I do deny that I was wearing them when they did so."

"What nonsense is this?"

"My boots were recently polished, Sir." (I had polished, pummelled and scrubbed everything I owned recently, including my own person, in an attempt to avoid the constant barrage of petty punishments) "If you look at the back of them, the polish is deeply cracked in a horizontal line. Around the crack is also free of mud. They've been squashed, since I last polished them, and before they went in the mud. Somebody has been standing on the back of the heels. Someone with much bigger feet than me has stolen my boots to make it appear I was the one who stole Odysseus." I concluded dramatically, adding "_Stubbs!_" to myself in a fierce mental whisper. Professor Rangaford snorted, and was obviously just finding a blistering enough refutation of my deductions, when the headmaster gave a whistle through his teeth.

"The boy's quite right, you know Professor Rangaford. What sharp little eyes you have Holmes. Impressive logic, too. Unfortunately, this does not help us find poor Odysseus."

"It does not acquit Holmes either, Sir. He could easily have produced this effect on his own boots. I find it rather farfetched that anybody would go to the trouble of framing a scrubby schoolboy. It strikes me this concoction is a further symptom of his continual attention-seeking."

"It may help you find Odysseus, Sir," I piped up, desperately addressing myself to the Headmaster, to avoid acknowledging Rangaford's input. "Whoever pinched my boots, his heels must've stuck out the back. His heels would've got filthy, but the toes would be clean. If you could find who the socks belonged to, you'd know who had taken Odysseus. All our socks have name-tags, you know, Sir." The housemaid, who had been dusting unnoticed up until now straightened up at this point, and interjected -

"Excuse me Sir? Was you asking about socks with dirty heels? It's just that Maggie, the laundrymaid, were complaining about a pair like that. I'm sure she'll remember who they belonged to, cos she were quite cross about it, begging your pardon sir, cos she had to wash them again, and what with it being that smelly horse dung, begging your pardon again, Sir. It's her day off today, but she'll be back tomorrow evening." Elsie looked shocked at her own temerity in daring to draw attention to herself, but Professor Wessex was obviously intrigued by the development.

"Thank you, Elsie. You have been most helpful. Please ask Margaret to step up to my office upon her return."

"Yessir, thank you Sir." Elsie returned to her work with a red face, but she caught my eye, and gave me a look of sympathy and a quick wink.

The headmaster puffed his cheeks out, beaming with satisfaction. He was enjoying himself. He turned to me, holding up a finger as Rangaford began to splutter in indignation.

"Any punishment will be deferred until young Margaret's return. Holmes, you may retire to bed. Do not mention this circumstance to anybody."

"Thank you, Sir." I felt my punishment had already at least in part been doled out by Rangaford, but I held my tongue as firmly as I had held my abused buttocks. I was palpitating with relief at my immediate escape, yet still not entirely sanguine. All our clothing _was_ supposed to be name-tagged, but I wondered whether Stubbs would have had enough initiative to remove any identifying features from his own hosiery before embarking upon this stunt. I doubted a pair of unidentified dirty socks would count much in my defence.

I was also worried about Odysseus. The disreputable terrier was my only friend here, and, although I acquired self reliance as an adult, little boys need companionship. I wanted to find the dog before any further harm may befall him, and before Maggie's return may bring with it disappointment and the resumption of my persecution. That meant tonight.

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_Be careful, little Holmes. You have had quite enough trouble for one small boy already, and you don't know what you're going to find next. Please R&R_

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	6. Chapter 6: The bolt hole

**The Adventure of the Headmaster's Terrier**

**Chapter 6: The bolt hole**

I hobbled back to my dormitory, disdaining to notice the stares directed at me in passing. I fished out the remaining aniseed balls, and popped two in my mouth at once. I found sucking on them helped me think.

Where was Odysseus? I worked the puzzle backwards. Stubbs and his followers must have already had the dog secreted somewhere when they staged their break-in, or there would have been little purpose to the gesture. The same, then, must have been true of their plan to steal my boots. I had last seen Odysseus at liberty myself on my return from the village, whence I had proceeded straight to my room. I remembered stirring only vaguely with the other boys moving around my room. I presumed this was when the boots must have been abstracted, when I was distracted by the human traffic, because our soiled clothing was placed in baskets outside our dormitories, and collected before we arose. The dirty socks were already inside for Maggie to have washed them, suggesting the deed was completed before early morning, and the boots replaced when I was at breakfast. I was certain I would have woken up at any other time, and noticed the theft taking place. Not to mention the fact that Odysseus would have barked loudly enough to wake the dead had somebody attempted to remove him from his bed in the study overnight, and I knew the dog had done nothing during the night-time.

This timing did not allow the perpetrator much time to conceal Odysseus. Three hours between my return and my boots being stolen. Allow for the time taken to hatch the plot, and persuade one of my dorm-mates to steal my boots, and the perpetrators were cutting things finely – and that was assuming Odysseus was taken straight after I had seen him.

I was certain it must be Stubbs. His bedroom window was almost under our dormitory, on the ground floor, and it would be very easy for him to sneak out of his own window and catch the items flung down to him from ours – matron opened the window in the evening to air the rooms, and it was our job to close it just before retiring.

Knowing my probable perpetrator was an advantage. I knew he was cruel and petty, but I very much doubted he would have it in him to dispose of Odysseus permanently - he also quite liked dogs in general. The terrier was concealed somewhere then, probably quite close; within the school grounds, I suspected, as that would make things easier for feeding him and checking upon him until I had received my punishment for his disappearance.

Where in the school grounds could a noisy little dog be hidden? Not in any of the internal rooms, where his vocal indignation would lead to his rapid discovery. That went for most of the outhouses too. I suspected he was on the East side of the school grounds, as Stubb's window faced that way, but none of the Master's windows did – he would not wish to be caught out of hours. There was the scrubby wood around the rugby pitch, and there was the river.

The river! At one point, the school grounds bordered on a fast and wide river, which was strictly out of bounds, as it had drowned more than one of the school's previous inhabitants. By the riverside, surrounded by trees, was an old outhouse, which many years before had been the main latrines, built there because of the handy irrigation I presume, and probably the height of sophistication at the time, but subsequently relocated to a more convenient situation for the body of the school – a return to the old fashioned but expedite chamber pots.

I was suddenly sure this must be where Odysseus was. The noise of the river would drown out his barks, and there would be no need to rely upon a rope or chain alone. I considered telling the headmaster my deductions, but then decided this admission of understanding may be construed as an admission of guilt. I would rescue him myself.

It was best if I accomplished this after the other boys were asleep – I did not want anybody to see me leave. I would leave through our window (our door squeaked), so I would need a rope. I decided for my rope, a little criminality would be necessary. I crept up to the door of the linen cupboard, in the corridor near my dormitory, and, after checking I was unobserved, slipped by penknife into the gap between door and wall and lifted the ridiculously simple latch-lock. I removed two linen sheets, and allowed the latch to fall back into place. Concealing the sheets under my shirt, I returned to my empty dormitory.

Making my rope was difficult work with only a penknife and severely bruised fingers, but I worked rapidly just the same, leaving several bloodstains along the sheets, as I tore them into strips, twisted them, and knotted them together with a rolling hitch. It was complete before the boys came back into my dormitory. I volunteered to close the window, and left it just open enough to make my exit. I then waited, my heart hammering with agitation, until the last boy's breath had become heavy and even, then I slipped out of bed.

I secured my rope to a hook for window baskets beneath our window sill, slipping a long piece of twine through the knot. I shinned down my rope easily, then pulled steadily on my twine, causing the knot to unravel and allowing me to collect up my rope and wrap it around my waist. I did not want it to be seen or reported hanging white and suspicious from the window. I would allow Odysseus to bark for admission on my return and sneak in after him, or conceal myself in an early morning delivery.

I checked the windows for light. There was none. I then set off across the field towards the river.

I noticed tracks as I went – footprints, larger than my own, heading towards and returning from the latrines. There were several of them in it, then. Something nagged at my subconsciousness about the tracks, but I could not place it immediately, and my attention that was not focussed on my end goal was taken up with realising how very cold it was, how icy the wind, and hoping I would not have to wait outside all night. The moonlight bathed the world in a harsh metallic glow, creating shapes and shadows to my eyes, more attuned to the friendlier outlines of daylight.

I was approaching the shed. The river was roaring loudly, as was the blood in my ears, and I raced forwards in high excitement. I pushed open the old door, noticing the old bolt had recently been broken, the snapped end glittering. I then realised what it was that had nagged for my attention about the footprints; some of the marks leading _from_ the latrines were overlain by marks leading _to_ the latrines. Odysseus's captors had arrived ahead of me, and they turned at my entrance to stare at me, then closed around menacingly.

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_Oh dear, Holmes, I _told_ you to be careful! This looks dangerous..._

_If you want to find out what happens next, some reviews may spur me on to write faster! Thanks!_

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	7. Chapter 7: The lion's den

**The Case of the Headmaster's Terrier**

**Chapter 7: The lion's den**

My mind rapidly recovered from the shock of finding myself in the lion's den, and I observed that Stubbs and his acolytes looked highly anxious, as well as aggressive. A quick scan of the room also revealed no Odysseus. There was a fence post driven into the ground with a rope tied around it. The end of the rope was frayed, as if it had been gnawed through. There were claw marks upon the ground by the door, where a frantic small dog had evidently unsuccessfully attempted to dig his way out. A solid bench where boys had once sat above the pit below lay along one side of the room, the top nailed down. The room was otherwise empty apart from myself, and the angry youths closing in upon me.

Stubbs grabbed the front of my shirt.

"Alright Holmes, you little ponce, what have you done with him?" I was tired of being addressed by the prefix of "you little", followed by something insulting, tired of being pushed, pulled, beaten and abused. I spat out my reply contemptuously.

"I've done nothing! I just worked out where you were keeping him! He's probably escaped."

"If he's escaped, then why isn't he back at the school?" Stubbs looked frightened. As I had suspected, this juvenile bully did not have the stomach for more daring criminal enterprises, and if the little dog turned up dead, the consequences if he were ever implicated would be more than he cared to contemplate.

"_I_ don't know. Maybe you scared him, and he's hiding in the woods. Why don't you look for him, instead of mis-shaping my shirt?" Stubbs knocked me down, and Brentwood aimed a kick at my stomach, which I curled up to avoid. Rawlings picked me back up again by the hair, and Osgood twisted my arm behind my back.

"Where – is – he?" snarled Stubbs, threateningly.

"I – don't – know." I panted in reply, although I thought my arm might break, and I tipped forward onto my toes to relieve the awful strain.

"I don't think he can know anything about it, Stubbs" said Larkin, one of the less obtuse of the gaggle. "He hasn't had time to get here, has he? And why would he come back, if he'd already set the dog free? I think he must have escaped. There's scratch marks under this door. He must have dug his way out."

"He might have got caught in one of Mr Vine's fox traps." said Rawlings, turning pale at the thought.

"We have to look for him" gasped Stubbs, picturing, no doubt, the retribution he would reap if the dog were to expire with his paw trapped in a vicious metal gin. He knocked me down again, almost as an afterthought, and the boys rushed out, _en masse_, no doubt to conduct a highly unsystematic and inefficient search of the woods.

I rose slowly to my feet, dusting down my trousers, feeling glad my reception hadn't been worse. I then smiled secretly to myself.

I knew there was no way Odysseus could have escaped under the door. There wasn't nearly enough room. I had told the truth when I said I did not know where he was. However, I had not bothered to add that I knew where he must have escaped from. There were no other possibilities. There was a gap between the edge of the bench and the corner of the room. There was nowhere for any creature to hide, but I walked around to the hidden edge, and crouched down to look. There was a hole in the old woodwork, big enough for a dog to fit through. Claw marks surrounded it. I had brought a small lantern with me; I lit it now, and peered down into the hole, my heart giving a little lurch as I realised the depth of the pit beneath.

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_Poor Odysseus – fallen down an ancient toilet pit. Has he survived this extreme dunking? Continued in chapter 8._

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	8. Chapter 8: The Black Pit

**The Case of the Headmaster's Terrier**

**Chapter 8: The Black Pit**

The pit, once the bottom of the latrine, was an unappealing prospect, and I hoped Odysseus was unharmed. I poked my head in and shone my light around, and then heard a soft, growling noise. I softly called,

"Odysseus?"

The growling was suddenly replaced by delighted yelps, and a splashing sound, and to my delight, the little dog came racing over to the familiar sound of my voice, wagging his tail so hard his whole back end swayed.

"Good Boy! Good Boy!" I called down to him, my face split with a huge grin of relief. "I'll get you out of there now!" I stood up and looked around me, deciding on my best course of action as my eyes lighted upon the heavy wooden fence post. As I walked over to it, I realised how effectively Odysseus's barks were concealed by the noise from the river, and the underground acoustics – I could barely hear him from the middle of the small room.

I picked up the fence post, and securely attached my makeshift sheet-rope to it. I then wedged the post against the entrance to the pit, and tied my lantern around my neck with the twine. I tested my weight against my rope; it held. Slowly, I lowered myself into the pit. The descent was about twelve feet, and made exceedingly painful by the injuries Rangaford's cane had dealt my hands earlier, but I ground my teeth and endured. My stomach roiled with disgust as I landed up to my ankles in filthy water at the bottom of the pit, but it was many years since this latrine had seen its intended use, and fortunately was no longer identifiable as human waste. Still, I would thoroughly clean my shoes and socks in the river prior to returning to the school, to avoid further recriminations, and I held Odysseus away from my clothes as he attempted to throw himself into my arms in a frenzy of delight. I ruffled his ears and patted his side until he calmed a little. I had tucked the free end of the sheet-rope into my jacket as I clambered down; I drew it out now and used the bottom few pieces to protect my clothing from dirty dog. I hefted him onto my shoulders.

I climbed back up slowly, carrying Odysseus, who licked my face enthusiastically. Holding him by his scruff, I lifted him over the edge, placed the lantern on the edge so I could crawl out upon my stomach, and was about to lift myself out when disaster struck. Odysseus scrambled against the fence post holding me up... there was a shifting sensation... and I was falling...

I landed heavily, still clutching my end of the bedsheets, and the fence post landed on top of me, dealing me a cracking blow upon the scalp, and stunning me for some minutes. When I came to myself, it was to find the Odysseus yapped shrilly at me from the exit, which was well above my head. No matter how I tried, I could not reach it. As I tried various approaches to scale the wall, Odysseus tired of the foolish game his friend was playing and wandered off. Fond as I was of him, I did not anticipate he would heroically lead a rescue party to find me. He would eat an excellent dinner, scratch himself heartily, and turn in circles in front of the fire before settling down to a good long sleep. Becoming increasingly exhausted and panic-stricken, I continued my escape attempts. There was no real purchase for my hands and feet, and I broke all my nails trying to find one. I tried taking a run up, and propelling myself up the wall in that fashion, by I fell backwards heavily, knocking the wind out of myself. I tried propping the fence post against the wall, and climbing up it, then jumping for the edge, but I fell short repeatedly, eventually catching my knee against the post in my descent. The pain was so severe I was violently sick. I then realised I could not weight-bear upon it. I was trapped.

I weighed my options. I shuddered to think of the consequences if I were caught here by the masters. Then I heard the rustling sound of the rats, and saw the glimmering little lights of their eyes in the near-darkness.

"HELP!!" I screamed shrilly. "HEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEELLP!!!" I shouted until I was hoarse, but no-one came. The river must been drowning out my voice as effectively as it had drowned out Odysseus's barks.

I was starting to shiver. The weather had been uncharacteristically warm of late, but a cold wind had been signalling time for a change, and the temperature was dropping rapidly. I was up to my ankles in stagnant water, and soaked through from my repeated falls. I was balancing on one leg, and exhausted, but sitting down meant immersing myself in the cold horrible soup on the floor, and getting closer to the rats. My eyes were sufficiently accustomed that I could make out their shapes, their tails swooping back and forth through the water in a snake-like motion as they swam, and I could hear the scuttling of their claws as they skittered around the outskirts of the room, even over the constant background booming of the river. They were very different to the sleek black and white pets young Dawkins kept in our dormitory.

I sagged against the wall, half sitting upon my fence post, but the various ills of my body, and especially the throbbing head wound from where the fence post had struck, were making themselves increasingly apparent, and draining me of energy. I became too weak to sustain my half upright position, and slid down the wall to sit against it upon the floor. The black water was icy, yet it seemed to burn. I seemed to see spots of white light, dancing before my eyes, and I became fascinated by them, as they danced hypnotically across my vision, tracing intricate patterns, flitting in and out of sight. I then heard a loud splash, and I was violently jolted awake by the terrible shock of cold. I had fallen sideways into the water. Whimpering, I pushed myself into a sitting position again, but could not stand to exercise some warmth back into my limbs. By now, I was aware that the sense of cold and drowsiness stealing over me was a sinister herald. It was with a profound, yet somehow detached, sense of terror, that I realised I was in shock... and freezing to death.

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_Holmes' days really aren't getting any better, are they? Please leave some reviews if you want to inspire me to help him!_

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	9. Chapter 9: The light beckons

**The Case of the Headmaster's Terrier**

**Chapter 9: The light beckons**

Cold..... so cold ..... and yet burning heat.

My limbs hurt.... how was it that I could not move them, then? Angrily, I tried, and the burning, aching pain came again, and I cried out.

Time was passing. There were ribbons of light, dust motes floating, when I opened my eyes. The lantern had gone out. I hurt, and I closed my eyes again. So cold.

Why wouldn't they leave me alone? I tried to tell them to stop, to let me sleep, to stop, the cold, and the heat, and the pain. I am wracked with it, leave me be.

They wouldn't stop shaking me. I could hear them ordering me to do something, and I was too weak to listen, why couldn't they understand I could not do what they told me. There were voices everywhere, inside my head, outside, I didn't know.

"Holmes. Sherlock Holmes. HOLMES! Open your eyes!"

My eyelids fluttered, as I tried to obey. I couldn't open them, it was too hard. I knew the voice, but it was from far, far away.

"Come along, Holmes, I know you can hear me."

There was a red glare in front of my eyes. Like inside a mouth. There must be bright light. I did not want to be dazzled by it. My head hurt. My eyes remained closed.

"Holmes!"

The voice was speaking again. I felt my left eyelid being lifted, by a thumb, I supposed. Shapes began to coalesce. I opened the other eye.

There was a face in front of me. I frowned, as I tried to focus on it. I knew the voice, I must know the face. The features began to harden, to make sense.

Suddenly, I recognise them. It is Professor Rangaford.

I begin to scream.

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_Not what you want to see when you first wake up! What is going on now?_

_A little short, but more is to follow. Do you think you might find your way to adding a little review please?_


	10. Chapter 10: Floating on the edge

**The Case of the Headmaster's Terrier**

**Chapter 10: Floating on the edge**

Over the next few hours, or days, I was not sure which, I began to realise that I was no longer in that festering pit. At first, this was as much as my exhausted mind could deduce, but eventually, I came to an increased awareness of my surroundings.

Smell seemed to be the first sense to fully return. I could smell soap, and iodine, and cotton sheets.

Hearing came next, but without the requisite connections to my brain, it was just a random cacophony of sounds, male and female voices, a dog barking. I thought on one occasion I heard Professor Rangaford's voice, and I must have become agitated, as a hand gently pressed my shoulder down, and a female voice whispered "Shhhhh".

Next came touch. I was lying in a bed. I was on my side. My head was wrapped in a crepe bandage, which had been folded back to allow a cold compress to nestle against my forehead. There were bandages elsewhere on my person, and my back felt slick with ointment.

As the sensations began to order themselves, I felt myself beginning to float towards them, as if I were on the sea bed and rising towards the light. I was waking up.

I finally came to from my restless sleep to find Mycroft sitting at my bedside, immersed in the pages of a book. I stared at him in bleary-eyed surprise, and he smiled thinly to see my awake. I suddenly experienced a fuzzy constricting sensation in my throat at the sight of a friendly face. Swallowing became difficult.

"Mycroft? Why are you here?"

"My dear little brother, you brains must have been addled indeed by your immersion in foetid water if you are unable to deduce that."

"I have been ill, I suppose" I mumbled, afraid to meet his eyes in case I read condemnation for my flagrant rule breaking, and unable to bear the thought of further censure from an ally.

"Quite unwell, yes. Alarm was initially raised when you disappeared from your bed. When you had still not returned by the next morning, this place was humming like an ants' nest. I gather you must have been rescuing that miserable mongrel those horrible children concealed in the old latrines?"

"He's not a miserable mongrel. He's a border terrier, and he's about the only friend I have left here!" The self pitying statement had slipped from my lips almost of its own accord before I could manage to stop it, and my throat tightened further at the emotion voicing that statement produced.

"Sherlock!" said Mycroft, with such gentleness I was taken aback. He put an arm around me, surprising me still more, and giving me a squeeze. He caught one of the larger welts from Brentwood's belt buckle, and I flinched. He froze. He then lifted my chin to study my face, and I was forced to meet his eyes. I started to see the expression in them – reminiscent of the times I had committed my most heinous offenses against him, but magnified, a cold furious glitter that boded ill for somebody.

"Who has been hurting you, Sherlock? Stubbs and his cronies?" I could only nod, roughly dragging my pyjama sleeve across my eyes. I had always tried never to betray weakness in front of Mycroft, and here I was, crumbling.

"Why did you not tell Professor Rangaford?"

I looked away, reddening, feeling suddenly ashamed of being the recipient of so many punishments. Mycroft's voice was even, but strangely soft and silky... _dangerous_, I thought in astonishment. I had never thought of Mycroft as dangerous before. What is more, he _knew_. I could feel it. He was just waiting for me to tell him myself, but I could not.

"You still have traces of pomade in your hair." He interjected suddenly, and I looked back at him, puzzled. "You have never worn pomade before. Your fingernails, although now badly broken, have been trimmed short, and your cuticles are rubbed raw, suggesting you have been scrubbing them repeatedly recently. Your house slippers are at the foot of your bed, and have been meticulously cleaned. There was another youth in here earlier, also in his slippers, who is from your house, and his slippers were not cleaned.

"You are unlikely to turn over a new leaf and become a dandy. You are still plainly prepubescent, and besides, there are no young girls working here I can imagine you wishing to impress. Therefore this sudden upsurge of cleanliness is because you are frightened of punishment. Add that to the fact that only your housemaster would both see those slippers and have the authority to punish you, and that Matron tells me your back is riven with welts and your backside so badly bruised from stripes there was hardly any undamaged skin – so much so she felt she had to lay you on your side - the conclusion is an obvious one. You are being both singled out, and viciously punished."

I was trembling by this time, and felt Mycroft was peering in to the yawning chasm of misery I had been trapped in for so long. He moved to the bed beside me now, and gently pulled me in to his shoulder, as my own shoulders shook.

"Oh, Sherlock. You should have told somebody. Somebody could have stopped this." My answer was not articulate, consisting of sniffing only, but it was eloquent enough.

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_Ahh! Well, obviously Mycroft isn't always a cold fish. What's going to happen about Stubbs, Rangaford et al now? More in the next chapter._

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	11. Chapter 11: Discovery and Recovery

**The Case of the Headmaster's Terrier**

**Chapter 11: Discovery and recovery**

When I had recovered my composure, Mycroft handed me a glass of lemon barley water, and began filling me in as to what had happened since my descent into the pit.

"Your absence was discovered not long after that wretche..... the border terrier returned to school. Apparently he barked most insistently to be admitted, thus rousing half the school. Professor Rangaford was one of that number, and he hurried to your dormitory, hoping, I daresay, to catch you in the act of sneaking back in.

"He discovered that you were not in your bed, and alerted the Headmaster as to this fact. They thus began to hunt around the school. Apparently, they thought you might have run away."

Their search of the grounds, it transpired had started with the perimeter fences, looking for signs of possible egress. It was from this search that they espied the lanterns of Stubbs and co., still engaged on an exhaustive yet abortive search of the copse. Extinguishing their own lanterns and relying on the bright moonlight, they had stolen up upon the boys. I daresay Rangaford was disappointed to not find me amongst their number. The Headmaster was incandescent with rage, as he had overheard them calling "Odysseus!" in lowered voices.

They might not have confessed to an angry Headmaster alone, but Rangaford had then put his booted foot in one of the gin-traps the boys had worried about, and by the time he had extracted it, bleeding copiously, his expression was apparently so murderous that the gang virtually tripped over each other in their haste to unburden their guilty consciences.

Having all thoroughly betrayed each other, in front of one another, they were dispatched back to the school in disgrace. Rangaford and the Headmaster proceeded to the old latrines, having extracted the information that this was where I was last seen from the boys. They saw my lantern, but what was to their eyes an otherwise empty room. Presumably at this time I was still engaged in my struggles to escape from the pit, and the river rendered me inaudible.

They had thus continued their search for me. It had taken them to the front gate, to ask if Will the gatekeeper had seen anything of me. They had then returned to checking the perimeter hedge, looking for signs where a small body may have forced itself through. They found several, as there were other boys besides myself who braved illegitimate missions, and through that hedge lay the roads to the sweetshop, the pet-shop, the bakers, even the tavern. Rangaford had sufficient initiative to check for signs of flattened grass, and discovered that only one exit had been used in the last few days.

Following the trail, they appalled several of their eldest pupils by discovering them comfortably ensconced in the tavern. They then escorted these youths back to the school, the Headmaster dourly muttering whether any of his boys were not Hell-bent on disgracing him. He grimly promised to deal with the truants in the morning, and re-checked my dormitory, finding my bed still empty. They were satisfied that the other boys in my dormitory were too terrified to be covering for me, and that I genuinely had not returned. They determined to search again in daylight, thinking still that perhaps I would return independently before morning. Rangaford limped off to have his foot dressed.

By breakfast the next morning, I was obviously still missing. It was Professor Rangaford who hit upon the idea of visiting the latrines again. The image of the room with the lantern had played upon his mind, and perhaps the gap and its inference had dawned on him. At any rate, he set off with Professor Spenborough, the geography master, to investigate. This time, they discovered the hole, and could just make out my body lying in the pit below. I was unresponsive to their calls.

Professor Spenborough raced to find the gardener, and brought him back with a ladder. He then climbed down into the pit, gathered me up, and passed me up to Professor Rangaford, who had carried me out into the sunlight and attempted to awaken me.

"Perhaps he is not as incapable of any finer feelings as I think" muttered Mycroft, reaching the end of his tale. "Apparently, you woke up, saw his face, and screamed at the sight of him as if you had just seen every demon from the ten circles of Hell. Spenborough told me. And apparently, at this, Rangaford looked sick to his stomach. Perhaps his forlorn shred of a conscience was kicking in. Spenborough carried you to the sick bay, and Matron began the long task of patching you up."

Mycroft paused in his narrative, and gave me a look reminiscent of recent worry.

"You were most unwell, Sherlock. The main concern was hypothermia – you were like ice. There were also those wounds – on your back, arse, knee, head – a hundred places to become infected by rat-infested water. Matron put you straight into a warm bath, and changed the water entirely several times, then dressed the wounds with iodine. That was a full day ago. Fortunately, nothing appears to be inflamed – you have probably escaped the worst of it."

I nodded, then a most unpleasant thought struck me.

"Am I to be punished again, Mycroft, for how I tried to rescue Odysseus?"

He looked shocked. "No, indeed, Sherlock. The Headmaster is actually most impressed by your ingenuity, and says your determination to rescue your hostage demonstrates moral fibre." He paused. "I think it displays a gross and wilful neglect of your own safety, actually, but I think that needs no further demonstrations." He then grinned at me.

"I was impressed by your work with the socks, by the way. It may interest you to learn that Stubbs himself ruined your boots, and was foolish enough to leave his heavily contaminated stockings for the laundrymaid to wash, complete with name tags. Such is the penalty for underestimating the lower orders."

"What will happen to them?"

"The stockings? I would imagine they were burnt."

"Mycroft!"

"Alright, little brother, simmer down! Stubbs, Brentwood and Rawlings are to be expelled. Their treatment of you plays very little part in that decision; I believe the Headmaster's greatest ire has been raised by their treatment of his dog. The other boys are to be split amongst several houses, and the prefects have been told to watch over them. Those old enough to have them have had fags have had them removed and they will not be reassigned. Then they have all had a substantial taste of the kind of treatment you have been enduring for the past few months. I think they will be most frightened of troubling you again. Or anybody else, for that matter."

"Cut off the head, and the body withers away."

"Exactly. I hope they will not grow a new head, but I do not think any of the other rogues at this establishment have what it takes to be such vile little leaders of men. Stubbs sounds as if he had a certain talent in that direction."

"What about Professor Rangaford?" I was unable to keep a little quaver out of my voice, and Mycroft's expression darkened.

"He will have to learn to moderate his punishments. I am seeing to it" growled my brother, and I wondered what he meant.

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_What are Mycroft's plans for Rangaford? I enjoyed squishing Stubbs and his bullies, and I can assure you they all had a jolly good thrashing – hurrah!_

_Why was Rangaford looking sick to his stomach? Perhaps there will be more revelations...._

_Thank you Orrianda, Westron Wynde, reflekshun, 221Bee, AppleA, and VHunter07 for your reviews, especially those of you who wrote more than once. I would be over the moon to receive more, but I mustn't be greedy!_

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	12. Chapter 12: Bitter and sweet

**The Case of the Headmaster's Terrier**

**Chapter 12: Bitter and sweet**

Time was passing slowly, but I was recovering. It was almost two days since I had woken up to find Mycroft at my bedside. I was able to play cards with him, but an attempt at chess made my head swim.

Actually, despite the slow pace, I was enjoying myself. I was too poorly for my brain to start tearing itself apart with inactivity, and the lazy, gentle life with no trials and no punishments was very soothing. Matron pampered me (Matron could be fearsome at times, but if you were in her dominion, she treated you like a precious baby). Mycroft was laconically indulgant, reading his university texts when I was drowsing, and willing to entertain me when I was alert. It was unchallenging luxury.

I was trying not to think about my recovery. The trouble with a taste of honey is that it brings home the bitterness of bile. I dreaded leaving my cosy little enclave, and head back into harsh reality, where I was liked by nobody. I dreaded meeting with Rangaford most of all. However, I was a pragmatic child, and I accepted there was probably nothing I could do.

There was another unexpected meeting in store for me.

That evening, I was back lying on my side, and Mycroft was reading a novel to me. The sickbay doorbell rang, and I heard voices in conversation outside. The door opened, and my mother entered.

I stared at her in utter astonishment for some seconds, before recalling my manners, and attempting to stand upright to greet her.

"Ah, Mother." said Mycroft tonelessly. "I hope you did not entirely ruin your holiday. You will be pleased to hear Sherlock is still in the land of the living, so your feat of making a five

hour journey in just four days has not been wasted."

"Do not be dramatic, Mycroft. I am sure there was never any doubt of his recovery" my mother replied flatly, her voice unemotional. "I came as soon as my prior engagements were seen through. It would have been most disrespectful to have cancelled. I was also informed that Sherlock was insensible for the first day, and what possible use could my presence have been under such circumstances? Do stand up straight when you greet me, Sherlock, do not slouch in that slovenly fashion".

I scrabbled to obey, and to kiss her dutifully on the cheek she presented to me, but I had not hitherto realised the extent of my weakness. My battered body protested with a great surge of pain in the muscles of my back, black spots gathered in front of my eyes, my head spun, and I was aware of a sensation of the world falling away from me.

Mycroft caught me as my knees buckled, and put me back to bed. The faintness was only transitory, and I was soon blinking my eyes back to normal.

"Now that a suitable sacrifice has been made upon the alter of filial obedience, perhaps you are to be graciously allowed to recline" said Mycroft in clipped tones.

My mother attempted to subdue him with a simple lift of her eyebrows. It would have worked upon me, but Mycroft simply returned the gesture, inclining his head with a little smile of mock-courtesy. I wished he would cease being antagonistic, as my stomach was beginning to churn with nerves, and I was fairly certain I would be the scapegoat if our mother were balked of her prey.

My prophecy was accurate, as she turned a cold, basilisk stare upon me, and addressed me in a voice that could sculpt marble.

"I have been hearing _most_ disappointing accounts of your behaviour, Sherlock. Flagrant rule-breaking, on behalf of a border terrier..."

"...which the Headmaster has not only pardoned, but congratulated him for..."

"...fighting with other students..."

"...or rather, being bullied by a group of far older boys who take great exception to intelligence and diligence..."

"...and Matron informs me you have had to be punished repeatedly..."

"...essentially, Matron mentions that Sherlock has sustained severe physical harm, following repeated assaults for a litany of negligible 'offences' which no other boy in this school has been punished for".

I could now feel the familiar liquid feeling in my spine of growing dread as I listened to this exchange of words between my family. _I am _not _going to cry_, I told myself, sternly.

Mother turned to Mycroft, her only outer sign of emotion a flaring of the nostrils.

"You are impertinent, Mycroft" she stated, as if she were commenting upon the weather. "I have no doubt that Sherlock has been the deserving recipient of reasonable discipline."

"I am very sorry, Mother" I whispered, hoping I could salvage the situation, but doubting it. "I try to be good."

"Sherlock, roll over and lift up your nightshirt" ordered Mycroft suddenly, "I feel our Mother should take a look at the results of this 'reasonable discipline'". He was compelling me to obey before Mother or I had time to protest.

I buried my face into the pillow in humiliation as my naked back and backside were scrutinised. There was a long pause, and I braved a glance over my shoulder at my mother. She seemed to be in the grip of indecision, a highly unusual state of affairs. I pulled my nightshirt back down hurriedly and, as nobody stopped me, burrowed back under the covers and awaited her pronouncement.

She drew a deep breath, and seemed to arrive at a resolution.

"This is worse than I expected. Your behaviour must indeed have been disgraceful."

This was the response I had grown to anticipate. It was familiar ground....

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_**Hmm, doesn't sound like the response of a mother flying to the defence of her cub. I'm not sure I like the sound of this – it makes being trapped in an old latrine sound almost attractive. What else has Holmes got to say about this mightily cold trout? Please read on to find out....**_

_**Reviews still welcome, by the way. **_

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	13. Chapter 13: Suffer the little child

**Chapter 13: Suffer the little child**

My mother was beautiful, but icy. As a small child I had adored her, but I am afraid the feeling was not mutual. A deeply religious woman, she seemed to see sin in everything I did. I remember her birthday, when I was four. I had expended a great deal of time and effort in drawing a picture for her, and printing "Mama, love from Sherlock" upon it. I had then plucked a flower from the garden, and threaded it through a hole in my picture, to make it appear she was holding it. I had proudly presented my masterpiece to her, saying,

"I made you something to say Happy Birthday, Mama." She had wordlessly viewed my offering, then looked at me searchingly, and caught up the hand I held it in.

"Have you just washed your hands, Sherlock?" she asked.

"Yes, Mama!" I answered proudly, having carefully washed my hands, cleaned my nails, and brushed my hair before coming to see her. She frequently rebuked me for slovenliness, so I felt pleased that she had noticed my efforts.

"Then you were dirty before you came to me again, and have sought to conceal it." I felt my heart slowly begin to sink below my stomach. "That is deceitful, Sherlock. Deceit is like lying."

"I-I'm sorry, Mama. I did not mean to be deceitful. I meant to be good."

"What is the Road to Hell paved with?"

"Good intentions, Mama" I whispered, my cheeks aflame.

Mama then turned to look at my carefully crafted gift, and I felt a faint hope rise within me that she would relent, and not punish me for my latest transgression.

"Did you ask the gardener's permission before you took this flower, Sherlock?"

I had frozen, not knowing how to answer, not having expected that I should ask before plucking a flower from my own garden.

"I see from your guilty face that you did not. You stole it, then, although you are too cowardly to confess it aloud. Come with me."

She tossed my card into the fireplace as she passed, and led me from the room. She fetched a piece of cardboard, a pencil and twine from her workroom, then took me to the hallway. She instructed a maid to bring her a tall kitchen stool, and the family Bible. She stood me upon the stool. Upon the cardboard she wrote the words "THEIF" and "LIAR", and she hung it around my neck. She then took the Bible, a massive, lavishly illuminated book that must have weighed close on twenty pounds. She opened it near the back, choosing her page carefully.

"You will start reading at Psalm 101:7. You will continue until I instruct you to stop." She then handed me the mighty tome, as I stood upon the stool. It was enormously heavy, but I knew I must not put it down. I began to read:

"_He that worketh deceit shall not dwell within my house, he that telleth lies shall not tarry in my sight..."_

I may not have attained my fifth birthday, but my mother stared fixedly at me as I spoke, chastising me when I stumbled over the difficult words. The meaning of the words seemed to hammer into my skull, and I knew not whether to burn with the injustice of it, or to drown in my own guilt.

I had to stay there and continue reading for the rest of the day. By the end of an hour, my arms and back burned with the pain of holding the book and my throat was sore. Mama made the concession of allowing me to balance the book upon a broomstick, to support some of its weight, but of course I still had to hold it steady. We had guests that evening; I was still on my stool when they entered, and my mother, to my overwhelming shame, told them that I had been caught stealing, and lying. My placard felt more of a burden that the Book.

When my father discovered what my "theft" and "lies" had been, he was appalled by my mother's reaction, and I could hear them arguing whilst I still stood upon my stool, my muscles excruciating from the enforced immobility, my voice so hoarse I could barely phonate. My father had come to lift me down (I could not return my arms to my side), and it was one of those rare moments where he held me close and muttered words of comfort to me. Except it was my mother I craved this reaction from, and she did not come. I remember feeling terribly guilty that I had made my parents argue, and that I was a thief and liar.

This was not the only such incident. I can recall so many moments of attempting to gain her approval, and being rebuffed, usually castigated. If ever I cried at this treatment, Mama's disapproval would increase ten-fold, and she would brand me cowardly and weak.

I dreaded meeting our neighbours and they had seen me being punished so many times, I thought they must believe me to be the most abominable child in England.

I must have recited the entire Bible, back to back, at least a dozen times, the passages chosen to both punish and condemn me by my own tongue, the weight of it like lead in my arms. I grew to hate that book, in lieu of hating my mother. Any religious feeling I might have had withered inside me, and I ceased to believe in the words, as a protective mechanism; had I believed all the curses I was forced to heap upon myself truly applicable to me, I believe I should have curled up and died. Other people draw strength and hope from religion, my mother took it away. She did not dwell on the blessings, or the softer, kinder sentiments. _Suffer the little children_... to me, the words meant that I was a little child, and I suffered.

Mama seldom seemed to direct such behaviour towards Mycroft; with him, she was firm, and cold, but there was no real ire; no strong feelings either way from either party in fact. They left each other be, and Mycroft rarely exerted himself to please her. However, none of my considerable efforts were sufficient to assuage her blighting contempt.

My father rarely intervened; in fact, he stayed away as much as possible, and was highly undependable as an ally. My mother demanded I treat him with respect; even as a tiny child it was clear to me that _she_ did not. The same, hard, look was in her eyes when they fixed upon him as when she fixed upon me, and although she was usually meticulously polite to him, it was with a stony disgust in her voice.

Mycroft told me that, after his birth and before mine, Mama had experienced a miscarriage, a stillbirth and a child who did not survive infancy. I used to wonder if this was what it was that my father and I had done to earn such animosity; he had given her unfit children, and I had had the temerity to live whilst they had died. I had also heard the word "philandering" used, and instinctively felt it was relevant, but at the time, I did not know what it meant.

Had I been left to the tender mercies of my parents, I believe I should have grown up feeling myself to be entirely unloved and unlovable. As it was, I knew I was not far removed from this state, but my parents' servants stopped me from becoming entirely untouchable.

Most of the household was in secret league against my mother. The housemaids would pinch my cheek and the footman tousle my hair and wink at me following a scolding. They would conceal the evidence of my youthful peccadilloes as best they could.

When my chemistry set exploded, showing the room in debris, the staff joined forces to repair the damage, even going so far as to paint the walls and ceiling. Watkins, the butler, himself an amateur chemist, rapidly showed me how to produce acetone from the addition of a hydroxide to an aldehyde, in order to conceal the smell of paint.

Watkins the butler and Mrs Marks the cook were my main solace. Warm, caring, normal, kindly people, they took me under their wings and made my life bearable. I would potter around the kitchen at Mrs Marks feet whenever I could, and she would give me treats, allow me to 'help' her, and always tell me how much my creations had been enjoyed at the servants' table. Sometimes, if I was hurt or upset, she would pick me up and sit me upon her knee, engulfing me in a soft hug. My nurse, chosen for her strict discipline, would never behave like this (I am sorry to say I rejoiced when the dropsy forced her to retire and at four years old I was considered too old to require a replacement).

Watkins had a grave face but twinkling eyes. He liked to make treacle toffee, getting under Mrs Marks feet, and making me giggle with their banter. The toffee was kept in an old tin with a soppy picture of a man and woman in old-fashioned clothes on the lid, and he would proffer it with a wink. I would solemnly select a piece which would weld my jaw shut for ten minutes at a time. He rescued me from trees, helped me with my schoolwork (especially chemistry) and generally offered the praise and compliments my soul craved, so lacking from other directions.

The only servant arrayed on the side of my mother was Drayton, the under-gardener, a stumpy man with carroty hair and deplorably strong arms. If ever she deemed corporal chastisement to be opportune, she would summon him, and he would supply it with a thin birch rod of my mother's providing. His performed this task with an appalling relish, his eyes glittering, his face flushed with concentration, and little flecks of spit at the corners of his mouth. I hated Drayton, but all the other staff were my friends.

I had to keep these relationships secret from my mother, as she did not like me to mix with the 'lower orders'.

"Badly behaved as you are, Sherlock, association with the working classes can only corrupt you further. You are already sufficiently uncouth."

I subsequently came to consider this attitude preposterous, and I think my mother suspected it. My preference for the infamous lower orders seemed to deepen her antipathy. Had she just once smiled at me and praised me, I believe I would have been her willing slave in all things. My idolisation of her lasted longer than might be expected, but, at last, her disdain had the predictable effect: I became indifferent to her when she was absent, and frightened by her when she was present.

By now, I was beginning to utilise some of the iron in my soul that I had inherited from her, but my steely resolution was still incomplete, and, as she stood today in my sick room and glared at me, I felt my shields begin to buckle.

At my moment of impending disintegration, the door opened again, and in walked Professor Rangaford.

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_Ugh, I loathe Holmes' horrible mother. I thoroughly enjoyed writing her though – she'd be a great pantomime villain – BOO, HISSS!! The Child is Father of the Man and all that though (Oo, that would be a great title for a fan-fiction – anyone want to borrow it?) and this would explain why Holmes has a "great heart", but represses emotional displays._

_**Historical note, for any geeks like me who are interested (or may help you understand Mrs Holmes nastiness):**_

_Syphilis is a sexually transmitted disease that was so rampant in Victorian society, its alternative names included the Great Pox and the Venereal Plague. It affected all stratas of society, but was particularly associated with prostitutes and sailors. Obviously those Victorians were not so morally upright as they professed. _

_In view of the "philandering" and Mrs Holmes lost children, it is worth noting that latent syphilis tends to gradually work its way out of the body over a period of years. Affected women may be asymptomatic, but the infection can pass through the placenta. A classic course is a several year run of miscarriages, premature births, stillbirths or sickly infants. The children are progressively less severely affected over time. The woman may recover, or may develop secondary syphilis years later._

_Owing to its associations with promiscuity and insanity, syphilis was a highly stigmatised disease. It is still around today, but it is fully curable if treated with antibiotics._


	14. Chapter 14: The Ascendency

**The Case of the Headmaster's Terrier**

**Chapter 14: The Ascendency **

I would have thought that the spectacle of my enraged mother and Professor Rangaford standing side by side would have caused my nerves to entirely fail me. It did not happen, as an immediately obvious and powerful distraction occurred.

Professor Rangaford caught sight of my mother. He froze.

A less observant child may not have caught the miniscule contractions of muscle, interrupted from their initial intentions. They may not have seen the sudden dilation of the pupils, the flaring of the nostrils, and the sudden fixity of expression. I always thought Professor Rangaford wore an iron mask upon his features, now I watched him put it on.

Such small, subtle movements, but to me, he may as well have leapt around the room shouting and screaming. I knew Mycroft could see it too, and wondered if he understood the reason for this sudden disturbance.

The professor recovered himself quickly, his habitual demeanour reasserting itself. But I was certain I could read some grave discomfiture into his expression still. He addressed my mother, and I was certain of it. He was distinctly uneasy, and uncertain of his reception.

"Mrs Holmes. How do you do? It has been a long while."

"Indeed, Professor Rangaford. It is gratifying to see you again. You are looking well."

He bowed in response, and a silence grew, during which time I spied a brief flicker of his eyes over towards me. Mycroft seemed hyperalert next to me, his body tense, and his attention fixed upon Rangaford, an ugly expression upon his face. Rangaford did not seem to notice my brother. He was regarding my mother again, and I thought he looked somewhat pale.

"I have come to inquire after your son, Mrs Holmes. I am glad to hear he is recovering."

"Yes, he appears to be." _Did she have to sound so indifferent_? Even Rangaford appeared infinitesimally nonplussed at her tone. "I understand I have you to thank that his recklessness did not result in his demise? I am grateful for your endeavours, and I am sure Sherlock must be also. I apologise on his behalf for his scandalous behaviour."

"Please, do not mention it. He is young, and his intentions were good. He intended the rescue of a creature in distress, and his mistake was in failing to predict the consequences of his actions."

_What? What was going on?_ I became aware my jaw was hanging open slightly as Professor Rangaford defended me, and I closed it again. I was agog. My mother then continued.

"By scandalous behaviour, I am not merely referring to the events of that night, although I must still deprecate such foolishness. I understand it has been necessary to punish Sherlock repeatedly for all manner of misdemeanours recently."

He definitely paled now. He looked miserable; strained, and.... _ashamed_?

"He... his behaviour has improved recently. His offences in the past have largely been trivial, and many of his masters speak highly of him."

He must be afraid that my mother would see the damage he had inflicted. He was defending himself. It must not have occurred to him that my mother had already inspected the damage, and had approved it – for what normal mother would behave so?

"Please, I do not approve of pandering to the boy simply because he has been ill. It is most misguided. He is idle currently, and the Evil One is likely to find work for him if he is not constantly rebuked for his transgressions. He was ever a susceptible child."

Rangaford was staring at her, but I could not define his expression.

"I have seen the marks that have had to be inflicted upon him, and I can see the extent of his offences. Better his body than his immortal soul. I must ask that you continue to discipline him, and scourge the unruliness out of him."

I have never heard a silence so intense at that which followed this statement. I could see the realisation dawning upon Rangaford that my mother had seen the battery to which I had been subjected. The realisation that she approved took a little longer. He stared at her, as if she was a species he had never yet encountered, as if he could see right through her... and then, as if he was seeing her for the first time.

Disillusionment. I had heard the word for the first time some weeks ago, and stored it for future use, liking the way it rolled off my tongue. Now it catapulted to the surface of my mind with an almost audible 'pop'. Disillusionment was the emotion I had found hard to identify upon Rangaford's face, but I could read it plainly upon his face now, so powerful it seemed verging on despair. The suppression of his expressions only served to enhance them for me. The room seemed to be thrumming with powerful adult themes that I did not fully understand, as if a spell was upon the protagonists.

Mycroft spoke, and the spell was broken.

"I am sure Professor Rangaford is delighted to hear that you are such an exemplar of maternal devotion, Mother. However, if scourging of the flesh leads to cleansing of the immortal soul, I imagine Sherlock has one of the most pristine souls in England. I am sure Professor Rangaford will ensure any discipline he metes out from now on is in proportion to the offence."

Mycroft's voice held an edge I had not heard before. I had thought the silkiness of Professor Rangaford's dialogue sinister before; Mycroft was operating on another level of intimidating. I began to think there may be more to my brother than I had hitherto suspected. It seemed to take several beats for Rangaford to assimilate Mycroft's words, then he gave a visible start, and turned to leave.

"Of course, Mr Holmes. Your brother shall be treated fairly." He was backing towards the door. "Mrs. Holmes, my respects to your husband". He missed the door handle on his first attempt, then found it, and escaped.

My mother was taken aback, although barely showing it.

"I do not appreciate your questioning of my authority, Mycroft. I shall overlook your behaviour on this occasion, but you will remember you are still a minor, and, as such, under my jurisdiction."

"For a short while only, Mother. You would do well to disregard the few months legally separating me from my majority. I believe I have already become quite influential. I shall be happy to assume some of my father's duties in the management of our family's affairs early if necessary, but I shall defer to your opinion on most matters if I deem it prudent. It will be excellent training for us both in preparation for the day when I shall take the reins in earnest."

An ugly flush crept across my Mother's features. She could sense her star being eclipsed, and, although she clearly burned to crush Mycroft beneath her heel, she was wise enough to realise this unexpected adversary was showing to advantage. Antagonising him was likely to lead to her own discomforture.

Mycroft was not finished.

"Sherlock's accomplishments must have been sorely limited by the physical harm and intimidation he has endured. He will need to catch up over the Easter holidays. I shall undertake his tuition myself, but I shall need to remain at University. There will be room for him in my chambers. I will suggest to Father that this be made a permanent arrangement. I am sure you will agree that the scholarly atmosphere will be of benefit to him."

Mycroft spoke with such complacency, and self assurance, that there seemed little opportunity for my mother to object. Her power seemed diminished as I watched her being over-ruled. Suddenly, a good measure of my terror of the woman seemed to be supplanted by uncomplicated dislike.

"Now, Mother," continued Mycroft, "Matron most strictly commanded that Sherlock not be subjected to too much disturbance. I was reading him to sleep when you arrived, and, delightful as I am sure your visit is, I feel he has had enough excitement for one day, and I should return to my task. We shall see one another at dinner. I recommend you take in the theology section of the school library – it is held to be one of the finest in the country."

He was ushering her out of the room, and she was going, too astounded to resist! This new masterful sibling was a revelation to me, and I could scare believe I was to be spared the relentless persecutions at school and during the holidays. Staying with Mycroft over the summer seemed like Nirvana beckoning. My mind had conveniently skated over the fact that Mycroft had frequently chastised me himself in the past; now he seemed to glow with authority and benevolence. I could almost imagine his portly frame in shining armour, if not for the fact he would indignantly and absolutely refuse to appear so inappropriately attired.

I stared at him as he returned to my bedside. He was studiously avoiding my gaze.

"How did you _do_ that, Mycroft?"

"Do what?"

Annoyance at this deliberate dullness dissipated some of my awe.

"Mikey! You know what! You made Mama do as you wished, as she listened to you."

"Never call me Mikey, child. Of course she listened. It was an eminently sensible suggestion. You will be most welcome over the summer. If you wish to earn your keep, you are an acceptable fag and errand-boy, I presume?"

"Of course. I am good at almost everything" I answered with a grin, not fooled by his feigned mercenary motives. I was not to be distracted from the main point though, and I returned to it.

"Why did Mama do as you said? And what happened with Professor Rangaford? He was looking at her as if she'd just stabbed him."

"My, how fanciful you are today. However, there is an aptness in the metaphor. Can you not deduce it for yourself? You have the data. Theorise."

I paused. I had heard rumours, but voicing them seemed highly disrespectful. Mycroft was fairly unshockable though. I theorised.

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_That's it, Mikey! Squash 'em!_

_I feel better now. Please review if you do too! Thanks to all you lovely people who already have._


	15. Chapter 15: Nothing but the truth

**The Case of the Headmaster's Terrier**

**Chapter 15: Nothing but the truth**

"Was there something between Mama and Professor Rangaford once?"

"A correct, if imprecise, surmise."

"Did Professor Rangaford want to marry her?"

"I believe he did, Sherlock. Evidently, I was not around to see it. However, I have subsequently learnt that Father and Tobias Rangaford were both alumni of this school. They both met our mother at the formal dances, which you will find yourself subjected to when you reach the senior years. Initially, our mother is said to have favoured Rangaford – I expect his dour ways spoke to her puritanical mind. I understand he was rather attractive to the opposite sex in those days, with his dark _soulful_ eyes and aquiline features."

"Why did they not marry then?"

"I believe our mother was popular, and ambitious. After leaving the seminary, she made her _debut_ during the London season. One could not be possessed of Mother's face and fail to attract interest. Even she must have had her head turned by some of the illustrious personages who formed her court. Had she been as charming as she was beautiful, I daresay you and I would never have existed, and perhaps there would be other, happier Holmes and Vernet families. However, one by one, her suitors failed to come up to scratch, and she faced the ignominy of completing her season unattached. She could not afford another.

"The two of her suitors who remained persistent, perhaps because of long habit, were my father and Rangaford. By now, our mother had become convinced that her duties lay in making a prosperous marriage. Rangaford, always her favourite, was yet poor in comparison to Father. Better to cut her losses, and choose the wealth – much good that has done her now. I believe Rangaford tried to dissuade her. I even believe there was an altercation between him and my father, but she was adamant.

"They were married later that year, and we must assume all was well at first, as I followed a mere ten months later. However, I doubt two temperaments were ever less well suited than my parents'. Her incessant demands upon his character began to drive them apart, and before too long, he had reverted to type – the carefree youth, kicking up his heels again, consoling himself for the unlucky life which was entirely of his own making – a role he has continued to play long after he ceased to be suited to it. I believe she responded by further emolliating herself in the role of martyr on the alter of wedlock. I think she hopes to be sainted before her fortieth birthday. She had best get a move on."

I was suddenly struck by the incongruity of Mycroft possessing such information as he had just revealed to me. "However do you know this, Mycroft? It really doesn't seem the sort of thing anyone should know about their parents."

Mycroft smiled bitterly. "My father has his little ways. His life is one of excess, and he makes no exception with strong liquor. He informed me of this himself, when in his cups. I was not much older than you at the time."

I felt sorry for Mycroft, having to endure his father making such weighty confessions to him at such a young age. It then occurred to me that _I_ was even younger.

"Why are you telling me this?"

_"Solamen miseris socios habuisse doloris*._ Besides, you have been treated far worse than I. I do not think it sensible that children should blindly honour their father and their mother, and I think it better that you know the origin of their behavior stems from their own past, and not from something you have done_"._

I sighed. "Mama must have been very unhappy with Father."

"Yes indeed."

"Why did she never leave?"

"She did once, for a while. I was six at the time, and I thought my world had ended. My father was shocked to the core, and went about the house in silence for a week, drinking heavily the whole time. He persuaded her to come back, though, after a few months, with promises he perhaps briefly intended to keep. I expect her mind could not reconcile the idea of divorce with her religion, and besides, you were on the way. Afterwards, his behaviour was as louche as ever, and Mama more coldly distant. I believe she still rebukes him that _Tobias_ would have made a better husband – they ever loathed each other, and it is one of the few ways she can guarantee of getting under his skin."

"And has Professor Rangaford continued to love her?"

"He thinks he has. I don't think he was ever in love with the real woman though, just a silly portrait an infatuated youth drew in his mind. I expect he has subsequently endowed her with every womanly virtue, and continues to think of her and polish the pedestal regularly."

A light came on in my mind. "So that was why he looked so upset when Mama talked about beating me."

"Precisely. She had tumbled from on high, hurting him more in the process than her. His golden idol has feet of clay. And a heart of lead. And a tongue of sharp steel that could slice beef. Perhaps he has realised my father is welcome to her."

I scowled in disapproval. "It all seems a ridiculous way to proceed. It is not logical. Why did he not simply forget about her, and continue with the rest of his life?"

"He was helplessly in love, Sherlock. It is inherently not logical. I am sure you will find yourself in a similar situation one day, although hopefully your obsession will be less enduring. It is one of the trials which much be endured in the procession towards maturity.

"Ugh, no thank you", I indignantly refuted. "Not if it ruins my judgement so much as it has ruined Professor Rangaford's".

"I am not sure you will have much say in the matter", said Mycroft, drily.

An astounding thought struck me. "Have _you_ ever been in love, then, Mycroft?"

"No." He answered. "But then, I always was a cold, unfeeling type."

I grinned at him, snuggling further under the bedclothes. "You're not cold and unfeeling at all, you fraud! So that means, by your own admission, you'll find yourself drooling over some soppy female, giving black looks to anybody who looks as well! Who's it going to be, Mikey? Is she pretty?"

I was half enjoying this banter, half desperately clinging to role of naughty little brother, to clear my head of the unwelcome thoughts Mycroft's words had inserted there. He must have known this, for he smiled indulgently himself, whereas usually he would peremptorily clip me around the ear. He flicked my cheek with one finger, and drew the covers more comfortably around me.

"Go to sleep, _Locksy_, you abominable little monkey. I shall continue reading this pathetic work of literature for ten minutes, by which time I expect the appallingly pedestrian prose will have lulled you to land of Morpheus. If you are still awake, you will realise neither our mother nor Tobias Rangaford are remotely frightening."

"Yes, Sir. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Sherlock."

************************

_Not a procession of innocence and light, the Holmes boys' childhoods. Hopefully, things will look up for Sherlock now. Continued in chapter 16_

*_Solamen miseris socios habuisse doloris_: = Misery loves company, from _Dr Faustus_.


	16. Chapter 16: Pax

**The Case of the Headmaster's Terrier**

**Chapter 16: Pax**

The next morning, I awoke to a yellow early morning light filtering through a gap in the curtain to fall upon my face, and a heavy pressure upon my ankles. Disorientated, I opened my eyes, and jarred my sore knee somewhat in attempting to move. A shrill yelp caused me to reciprocate in kind, until I became aware that Odysseus had sneaked into my room overnight and slept on the end of my bed.

Grinning with the pleasure which comes from being one of very few people in the vicinity awake, and knowing I was indulging in something rather illicit, I ruffled my furry friend's head, and encouraged him to snuggle in with me. I noticed, just from these few movements, that I was considerably better.

Matron, who might have been difficult to coerce into discharging me had I asked her, was scandalised to discover my companion, and declared that if I was well enough to admit "dirty mongrels" into my bedchamber, I was well enough to return to my common room. She placed me on "light duty" for the next few days, meaning I was to loll around the common room, take gentle, restorative strolls around the grounds, and not attend any lessons. She then shooed Odysseus and I from her domain.

Thanking the terrier for my second deliverance of the week, I obeyed, limping from the sick room to take my first constitutional around the grounds, Odysseus at my heels. There was a light frost upon the grass, but the sun was surprisingly warm, especially bundled up as I was (Matron threatened to come after me herself if she caught me outside in anything but clothing suitable for the Arctic, and I saw no reason to disbelieve her).

I soon was the recipient of a hearty hail, and I turned to see the Headmaster striding towards me.

"Mister Holmes! Delighted to see you up and about! I see Odysseus has come to express his gratitude?"

"Yes, Sir. He came into my room this morning, before I was awake. Matron was not too pleased."

He bellowed with laughter.

"So that is why she let you out!" (I saw almost everything the Headmaster said as being punctuated with almost visible exclamation marks).

"I'm not sure if Matron likes dogs, Sir, but I didn't think it was fair to throw him out after the shock he must have had – and he saved my life. She seemed to think I must be well enough to leave because of it" I stated innocently.

The Headmaster unleashed another barrage of mirth in my direction, then sobered.

"I think you saved each other's lives, young Holmes. I must say, it was rather noble of you to overlook the punishment you had unjustly received for his abduction, and still mount a rescue mission." I noted that, now that I was innocent of dog-napping, the punishment Rangaford had doled out had been given recognition, whereas previously, still under suspicion, he had talked of it being "deferred". I was disinclined to quibble, however.

"I was worried about him, Sir. I thought perhaps no-one would have believed me if I said where I thought he was, so I had to rescue him, you see."

"Well, I am not generally one to condone flagrant rule-breaking, but it was all in a good cause. You have done very well under difficult circumstances, and I hope your life will be the better for it. I am sorry those other young bounders have been so beastly to you of late. Young Epson mentioned to me that they had been victimising you. He said he had mentioned it to Professor Rangaford, but...well..." the Headmaster harrumphed like an embarrassed elephant, and I gathered we were not going to formally address the topic of Professor Rangaford. He continued;

"...anyway, you will no longer be the subject of such unpleasantness. It shall be seen to. And in the meantime..." he drew from his capacious pockets a large, bulky paper bag "...here is a little thanks and compensation for your trials. I would share them with Mister Epson if I were you. Staunch little friend you have there, Mister Holmes, and I recall you saying he shared your tastes – I am sure he is ready to renew the acquaintance."

The bag contained aniseed balls, probably the entire of Mrs Jones' stock. I stammered my thanks, amazed that so important and distant a figure as Professor Wessex could have noticed so insignificant a thing as a rift between two small boys. He beamed at me.

"I recommend smoking as a more efficacious aid to thought, Mister Holmes, but until you are old enough to take it up, enjoy these foul articles. Come, Odysseus!"

I returned slowly to our common room, aware that I was not fully healed as I limped up the stairs. As I entered, the buzz of conversation died down. One boy, Allman, crossed over to me, and held out his hand.

"Holmes, I just wanted to apologise for not standing up for you more. We heard all about you rescuing the Headmaster's dog – that was really brave. I glad Stubbs and co got what they deserved. Can we call it Pax?"

"Pax" I answered absently, shaking his hand, at which several others gathered around shaking my hand and patting my back. I'm not saying it was not welcome, and it was a brave apology, although it would have been more impressive had they befriended me when I needed it, not merely when it was safe. I was distracted, however. Epson sat in a chair, pretending to read a book, and very red in the cheeks.

I crossed over to him, and sat next to him. I pulled the bag from my pocket.

"Aniseed ball?"

He took one. "Thank you."

"Thanks for speaking up for me with the Headmaster. I'm really sorry I've been such a pig to you, Epson."

He glared at me. "You could have trusted me, you know. You could have told me what you were doing. All the time I thought you were just being horrid, you were protecting me from Stubbs and that lot, and just making things worse for yourself. I didn't realise for ages, and I feel bloody stupid. Why didn't you tell me?"

I gulped. I had not thought Epson had fathomed my strategy, and I felt a little uncomfortable with him divining my role as protector in chief

"I wanted them to stop coming after you. Would you have agreed to ignore me in public and just be friends in secret?"

"No, of course not!"

"Precisely. You couldn't have resisted helping me, and then you'd've been hurt all the more. It wouldn't've helped me either, cos they got more vindictive if they thought there was anything good in my life. It made much more sense to cut you off – except you _still_ insisted on helping – you're ridiculously decent, you know."

He flushed further, but was obviously trying to prevent himself looking pleased.

"I wish I'd been given the choice, that's all. Never mind, that's all over now. Friends again?"

"Yes."

"Can I have another aniseed ball? Wherever did you get them all?....."

********************

_Hooray, Holmes seems to have his life back! How does he get on? Story continued in chapter 17. Please Read and Review!_


	17. Chapter 17: Cometh the Man

**Chapter 17: Cometh the Man**

Following the case of the Headmaster's Terrier, my life at school became much more tolerable.

I saw Mycroft off the day after my discharge from sick-bay. I shuffled my feet, and thanked him, for his part in stopping my torments, unaccountably tongue-tied. He ruffled my hair, and reminded me that I was to come and stay with him at Easter.

The spiteful attacks in the corridors had stopped, and suddenly, many boys wanted to be my friend again. Something had subtly shifted, though. Although I rather enjoyed their approval, their company meant little to me. I could never truly forget their abandoning me to my painful isolation, although I would try to forgive. I no longer needed them. I was polite, and let a veneer of camaraderie overlay my attitude, but there always remained a thin film of ice between me and most of the rest of the world. I did not take up team sports again, but concentrated on boxing, fencing and wrestling.

I had one true friend, and did not feel I needed more. With Epson, I felt comfortable being a schoolboy.

We climbed the tallest tree in the grounds, right to the top, and avoided getting caught doing it.

We collected spiders, and released them into the Hall when the girls from the seminary came for the formal dances, and practically cried with hilarity at the sound of the squeals and screams emanating from within.

We rescued a baby hedgehog singed in Mr Vine's bonfire, and hand reared it together with milk stolen from breakfast, and slugs and worms collected from the garden.

We would hold whispered conversations after dark in our dormitory, and later, when he was my room-mate, trade confidences, and snigger helplessly about nonsense. Some of the best moments of my school career took place in the intimacy of that darkened room. In short, I was able to salvage some of my childhood, and my capacity to form a small number of important friendships.

The fire seemed to have gone out of Professor Rangaford. He was still a strict teacher, effortlessly maintaining discipline, but it was like being taught by a shadow. He had stopped caning me entirely – he did not touch me at all. Sometimes, I fancied he could hardly bear to look at me. I would have thought this change was attributable to external intervention, but for the effort he put into teaching me chemistry.

Without making eye contact, he would nevertheless test me minutely on every aspect of my work. He would mumble his way thorough as yet unsubstantiated theories of matter and energy, and draw out both my knowledge and my imagination where chemistry was concerned. It was not sufficient to know the answer. It was not even sufficient to understand the theory. I had to _feel_ the subject, interpret, extrapolate, theorise in logical steps to draw to a conclusion far removed from the original question.

"From one drop of water, a logician could predict the existence of the Pacific Ocean" he muttered near me one day (I never thought of him as talking _to_ me).

The idea seemed to light a fire in my head. I no longer thought of my thoughts as sitting passively within my brain, but as active tendrils, reaching out like bright rays of light into darkness, exploring the world around me not according to what I could see, but what I could reason. A whole new world of possibilities was opened up. My imagination was a powerful and practical tool, not a child's plaything as my mother would have it.

My body could not help but continue to be afraid of Professor Rangaford. I still felt myself shrinking when he came into the room, and he still featured as a sinister figure on the occasions I ever experienced nightmares.

But I have honestly never had such a brilliant teacher.

He did not stay long after these events. He left the school at the end of year, and I understood he had left the country as well.

Professor Rangaford's replacement was also an excellent teacher, who encouraged my talents to flourish, and assisted rather than stifled me. He was kind, entertaining, and scrupulously fair – he caned me on two occasions, both of which I thoroughly deserved. He helped me to move my studies in the right direction, but never changed that direction entirely.

Mycroft was also a superb accessory to my learning. I say accessory, because Mycroft did not like to teach – he found it immensely tedious. However, I was beginning to realise that Mycroft's brain surpassed that of anyone I knew. Just being around him in the holidays stimulated my own mind almost as extensively as Professor Rangaford had done.

Holidays with Mycroft were ...well... no holiday. He was as incurably lazy as ever, and, as he had promised, he exacted payment from me in the form of cheap labour. I found myself in the role of general factotum, spending long periods of time on my knees scrubbing his hearth, or floor, or shoes. He had little patience with my mistakes, upbraiding me as a little idiot if I botched my Greek composition, or produced a slapdash essay. I received an eye-watering hiding from him when I borrowed one of his books and spilt ink over it.

However, it was Paradise compared to home, and when my brother was in one of his more congenial moods, he would often treat me, or entertain me. I felt he enjoyed having me, and I liked to feel wanted. My favourite moments were sitting in the window of his favourite cafe, he drinking strong black coffee, and I hot chocolate, both eating cakes and deducing the life stories of passers-by. If I did particularly well, I was likely to be brought sweets or a cheap novel on the way home.

In essence, my life was improved immeasurably, thanks to the roving nature of one little dog. In the less oppressive atmosphere, my confidence and abilities began to grow. I enjoyed my next four years at school.

However, the flourishing confidence I gained made me feel I had outgrown school by the time I was sixteen. I decided to sit my Responsions at this point, and passed creditably. My parents and Mycroft were decidedly unkeen that I matriculate so early. However, Epson was leaving school, and leaving England, for the Antipodes with his family (where I believe they have met with considerable success), and I was filled with impetuosity.

I furtively made my own arrangements with the University. I then politely took my leave of the Headmaster, my other Professors, and one border terrier.

"You have been a credit to this school, Mister Holmes" wheezed Professor Wessex during this interview. He had become decidedly stout in the intervening years since my encounter with the latrine pit. "I feel one day we shall hear your name celebrated far and wide, no matter what field you decide upon. You must come back and visit from time to time."

"I should love to, Headmaster. However, I fear it must at first be in secret, as my family will be attempting to discover my whereabouts, and I do not choose that they should find me before I am ready."

"Hush, hush, you must not tell me such things, you young rogue" chuckled the Headmaster. "I do not envy you the task of keeping anything from that brother of yours." He shuddered dramatically, then rose to his feet, and shook me heartily by the hand.

"Good luck, you rascal."

"Goodbye, Sir, and thank you. Good-bye, Odysseus."

I then gathered up my meagre belongings, and set forth into the world. I would act, I would box, I would study what I wished. I would avoid the profound castigations of my brother, by avoiding my brother. The opinions of my parents no longer meant very much to me at all. Perhaps I would travel. I would drink in low taverns, and gain experience of the world. Maybe I would even satisfy my curiosity as to the opposite sex. Only when I had had my fun would I return, the prodigal brother, to repent, and settle back into a respectable way of life for a while.

It was not that I was ungrateful to Mycroft. It was that I feared the heavy oppression of my own gratitude and his designs for me would be irresistible if I did not make a break. I communicated as much to him in a letter, ending it with unaccustomed sentimentality,

"Your affectionate brother, Sherlock".

My excursions into the big wide world were a blend of invaluable and disastrous, and perhaps would befit being documented at some later date. Eventually, as I had promised both myself and Mycroft, I returned to University, as a head-nod to propriety. However, my taste of freedom had left me ill-suited for the restrictive nature of most professions.

Professor Wessex died two years after my departure. Upon hearing the news, I hurried back to school, and asked if I might have Odysseus. I was somewhat chagrined to discover that the Headmaster's Will had laid down a rather handsome amount of money in trust for the maintenance of his pet. I had offered out of nostalgia and an uncharacteristic affection, and did not wish to be suspected of avarice. However, my offer was eagerly accepted by those who might be expected to accept responsibility, and evidently wished nothing to do with the temperamental dog. My friend therefore supported me through a second rather difficult time of my life, as I attempted to make ends meet and establish my practice.

It could even be said he set me on the right path. It was Odysseus' belligerence that caused Victor Trevor's bulldog to savage my ankle in lieu of more satisfactory prey, and planted the seed of an idea that I could live by my wits. I determined that I would follow my own inclinations still.

***********************

_Good dog! _

_Continued in _Epilogue


	18. Epilogue

**The Case of the Headmaster's Terrier**

_**Epilogue **_

The terrier proved extraordinarily long-lived, surviving long enough to meet my dear friend Dr Watson. Upon his reaching the end of his existence, I even allowed him the final honour of playing a part in the first case I shared with the Doctor, which he has fancifully entitled "A Study in Scarlet". I had been prevaricating, putting off a horribly unpleasant task so long that Mrs Hudson took to nagging Watson to provide the merciful lightning bolt. I knew the poison would act quickly, and, absurdly, I had the distinct impression my disreputable companion would have approved.

When my childhood friend had given one last convulsive shiver, but shown no distress, I had wiped the sweat from my forehead, immensely relieved I had not miscalculated and condemned him to a painful end. I had allowed myself the luxury of closing my eyes for a brief moment, and there he was, the picture in my mind as he raced across the quad towards me perfect in every detail. For a moment, I was twelve years old again, with scabby knees, grubby hands and tousled hair.

I opened my eyes, the years fell away, and I was again Sherlock Holmes, the world's first Consulting Detective, about to close a case, and make an arrest.

As we left the room with our prisoner in tow, I hung back for a moment. I ran my hand along the little dog, and whispered "Thank you, Odysseus. Good-bye". I then caught up with my companions, and we descended the stairs together.

OoO

I had thought, with Odysseus gone, that I would have no further reminders of my schooldays. It fell out that I was wrong in my assumptions.

Some three years later, I was intent upon a study into the effect of various metallic soil elements upon decomposing flesh. Watson was, perhaps understandably; uncharacteristically opprobrious regarding the effect this had upon the atmosphere of our sitting room, and had insisted I work directly beneath the wide open window.

The, I confess, overpowering offensive smell, and the clatterings and rumpus of a busy street below, distracted me from the sounds of a guest being admitted to our chambers, and not until the newcomer had been ushered inside did I register his presence. I looked up with eyes somewhat watering from the miasmic properties of my experiment, and so his outline was subtly blurred. Enough that the lines etched into the planes of his face, and the streaks of grey hair, were not immediately apparent.

Again, I experienced that sensation of the years falling away, and the sensation was not a pleasant one. The intervening year between tyranny and departure was evidently not my uppermost abiding memory of the man standing before me, and, before I could gather my wits, I had blenched, and my suddenly shaking hands dropped the glass beaker I was holding, so that it cracked along its base. The sharp sound recalled my senses somewhat, and I automatically placed the beaker into another receptacle to prevent the contents spilling.

The distraction did not prevent my noticing that I may have well struck my visitor in the face as reacted the way I did. His stricken expression was quickly smoothed over, and he crossed the room with his hand outstretched and his face impassive. I crossed to automatically return the gesture, my mind whirling with surprise.

"Mr Rangaford. It has been a long time, and I see you have prospered in the tropics, and that you are very recently returned. Pray excuse me. I surmise you do recall our prior acquaintance, but we have not met as adults before;, I did not immediately recognise you." He inclined his head towards me. "This is my friend and colleague Dr John Watson; Watson, may I present Mr Tobias Rangaford, who had the dubious honour of teaching me in my schooldays."

I could almost feel the curiosity, and very slight enmity, exuding from my companion as he regarded the little tableau. I am not naturally inclined to wear my heart upon my sleeve, yet I was rattled, and visibly so. It is not every day one's childhood bogeyman emerges into one's sitting room.

Rangaford shook Watson's outstretched, and spoke in the same quiet, deep tones I remembered.

"Good morning, Gentlemen. As you surmised, I have not long returned to the country of my birth, and I do not intend to make a long visit. However, there were certain duties I felt it incumbent upon me to discharge, and I should like to speak with you, Mr Holmes, if I may?"

Despite the contained manner of his speech, I detected a faint, imploring expression cross his features. I was not so churlish as to maintain my ancient grudge and refuse his plea.

"Of course, Sir. Would you care for some tea?"

I saw him hesitate minutely, and his eyes flickered to Watson for a split-second. Watson, whose own observational skills are considerable when they concern the emotional behaviour of his fellow man, rose to his feet.

"I hope you have no need of me, gentlemen? I have an errand to run for a patient of mine, and I must not tarry."

I knew he had no such obligation, but was grateful for his tact. Normally, I would ask for his involvement in my cases, but I had the distinct impression this interview was to be of a personal nature. I summoned Mrs Hudson to provide tea for two persons.

My former professor turned to me as Watson left.

"A staunch friend you have there, Mr Holmes. There is something about him of young Epsom, is there not?"

"Indeed, Sir. I place considerable value upon his company."

He looked me up and down.

"I would not have thought you had it in you to be so well-grown. You were the smallest in your class when I left the school."

"Yes, Sir. My growth followed the slow and steady wins the race principle until my fifteenth birthday, then appeared to come in for a strong finish."

It was a bizarre sensation. I had been terrified of this man for years, yet now he stood, barely taller than I, and appearing awkward and uncomfortable. He did not seem at all formidable, as he made rather gauche small talk, evidently screwing up his courage to come to a point.

Mrs Hudson appeared with the tea tray, and I poured a cup for my guest and myself, settling us both down in front of the fire. I smiled inwardly as I realised I was still too constrained to reach for my pipe.

It appeared Rangaford was struggling to address the purpose of his visit. I helped him out a little.

"I gather this is not merely a social call, Sir?"

"Yes and no, Mr Holmes. It is not for professional reasons I sought you out, although I am pleased to hear you are building a considerable name for yourself. It is a personal matter."

"Indeed? Please, do continue."

"I have been conscious, for many years, of a great debt hanging over me, which I owe you." I must have stared at him in bewilderment for a moment, as he continued, evidently distressed: "Please do not deny that, for a long period, I treated you abominably."

Composing myself, I inclined my head slowly in acknowledgment, but added:

"Perhaps at first, Sir, but your treatment of me in your final year of school did not brook criticism, and I remain ever grateful for the analytic skills you taught me."

"I have no doubt you would have realised those skills independently, given time. You were a startlingly apt pupil. But the fact remains, my treatment of you was sufficiently harsh to cause you to scream in terror at the sight of me when you lay ill, and it took such a horrible reminder – a young child, petrified at my very presence – to bring me to my senses. I could not help noticing even today you paled a little at my entrance. Shameful in the extreme."

"Please, Mr Rangaford, this degree of self-immolation is not necessary. I accept your apology, and no further is needed", I protested, embarrassed. He held up a hand to me, his eyes closed momentarily, as if recalling pre-set lines, and gathering his determination.

"I feel in some ways, I am begging an indulgence of you; to unburden myself. I have remained deeply ashamed of my treatment of you to this day. I am relieved you seem to have prospered despite it. Realising what your home background must have been, I feared you may have been permanently damaged."

"You do become personal, Sir", I replied, a trifle stiffly, feeling a flush beginning to rise across my cheeks.

"Forgive me. I speak only the truth, though. And I wished to explain to you a situation which may not have been clear to even such a perceptive child as you yourself were.

"Are you aware that I had some acquaintance with your mother before she was married?"

"Yes."

"And you are aware that your father and I were both suitors for her hand?"

"Yes."

He nodded. "And you are aware that she left your father for several months before you were born?"

I resisted the urge to leap to my feet and leave the room. I nodded curtly.

"Do you know to where she went?"

I stared at him, then, with a sense that a revelation was pending which would shake even my complacency, I shook my head.

"She came to me. It pains me to say that your father's lifestyle… ah, I see you are aware of it. It was a source of great distress to your mother.

"I would like to say that I loved her with a purity that recognised a strong-minded and righteous soul, but it would not be entirely honest. I think, perhaps, by that time, your mother's mind – forgive me, alas! – was not altogether her own, and her illness was already beginning to show, but I was young and ardent, and did not perceive it to be so. I felt I was offering her shelter from her spiritual trials, but having her near me awakened all the old feelings I had sealed in my breast for almost eight years.

"Then, her husband made to take her back. At first, he used only right-minded persuasion, but I believe he became frustrated, and there was… an altercation. I was not present, I was not nearby, but I believe… something occurred which your mother never forgave him for, and which, I am sorry to say, conferred lasting dishonour upon him, even though she were his wife."

I stared at him in horror. What right had this man, who had tormented me mercilessly as a child, to confound me with such disclosures, not to mention the implications for my own conception. If he suspected such bestiality of the part of my father, in what possible way could inflicting the knowledge upon me be seen as redeeming himself? For all his pompous hyperbole, this was making nothing better for me. I believe he read these thoughts from my expression, as he winced and apologised.

"Such things were more common than they are today; even though less than thirty years have passed. I am sorry if it distresses you. However, I felt it may help you to understand why your mother felt such lasting shame and antipathy. It was not directed at you personally, but at the circumstances of your birth. For, following her ordeal, your mother turned to me for comfort, and for once, her high-mindedness faltered and she gave in to her passionate nature that she had always so firmly suppressed."

"You mean you –ed her?" I spoke coldly, angrily employing an Anglo-Saxon word to puncture the cloud of verbiage with which he cloaked his meaning. He gasped in shock, then visibly sought to bring himself under control. When he began speaking again, he was clearly moderating the floweriness of his language.

"Yes, I am afraid so. It was wrong of me, of us. We both suffered for it. She felt there was nothing for it but to return to her husband, and try to repent. I hated that decision, but had no choice but to abide by it. I wasted much of my life hopelessly idolising her, hoping she would come back to me.

"You, I am sorry to say, were a reminder of all I had lost, a symbol of the reunion of your mother and her husband. I took out my despicable disappointments and frustrations on you, a helpless child. It was not until your accident whilst recuing the headmaster's dog that I saw myself for the monster I had become. And it was not until I realised that your mother approved my actions in tyrannising you that I saw her for what she had become, and what a dreadful waste it all was.

"I have since been fortunate enough to build a new life for myself, far from my homeland. I toiled, in penance for my sins. I emerged a better man, and met and married a good woman, who has borne me three children. She knew about my past. I felt I had moved beyond the damage I had done.

"However, I have recently been diagnosed with a heart condition. I do not know how long my health will endure. I determined to return to set my affairs in order, and came to the realisation that my treatment of you had been paining me for years. I could not leave it unexplained, my apology unsaid. I wished to tell you that I wish for you to prosper. And I wish for you to try to understand your mother, and perhaps forgive her also."

I smiled, grimly, at him. "You have obviously rediscovered your religious faith in your new life, Sir."

"Indeed. Our Good Lord forgives all, and wishes us to extend his good word to others."

"Apart from those he condemns to fire and brimstone for all eternity. However, I will take your words into consideration, and please be assured you have my forgiveness. As you see, I have moved beyond my childhood tribulations, and believe myself to be unscathed."

I was speaking quite automatically now, wishing only to get the man out of my house, so that I could sit and think and smoke my pipe. He did not appear to notice. He followed with more extravagant verbosity, thanking me for my generosity, and assuring me I had allowed a troubled soul to rest and the like.

I ushered him from the room, and lit my cherrywood.

Whenever Mycroft spoke of our parents, his words were always "our mother" and "my father"; never "our father". I was amazed I had not made the differentiation before.

It was by no means certain. The man who had raised me and Rangaford were physically similar, and I took after my mother in many respects.

It certainly did explain why my mother seemed to see sin in everything I did. She can never have been certain, either.

It is disconcerting to find one's place in the world suddenly shifted. However, as I inhaled the rich, twirling vapours, I found my consternation dispersing, like the smoke from the pipe as it thinly spiralled to the ceiling.

Footsteps sounded upon the stairs, and the door opened to admit Watson.

"Holmes. Is all well, dear fellow?"

I smiled, and felt more relaxed.

"Yes, thank you, Watson."

"I gather that man must have meted out some harsh treatment of you in the past?"

I stared at him. "However did you deduce that?"

"You were distracted just before he entered, so the sight of him took you by surprise – you then looked alarmed, and your hand ghosted towards those scars upon your backside. I was the recipient of similar chastisement myself on many an occasion, but I have no visible reminder of it, ergo, harsh treatment."

I roared with laughter. "Watson, you improve immeasurably. You are quite correct; he was a martinet."

"I hope his visit was not disturbing in any way?"

I thought about Rangaford's revelations, then noticed my friend's steady gaze upon me, and suddenly, I found I did not much care.

"Not really. It may be that what's past is prologue, but I find the present and the future somewhat more compelling. Come, my friend – _carpe diem _– a stroll around the park followed by a bite at Giovanni's should take care of both!"

o-o-o-o-o-o-FIN-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

_ Well, that's that! Only took 13 months to write the epilogue! Started ages ago, just never got around to finishing. Hope you enjoyed it._

_ I felt I had to make sure I can still do the Victoriana-speak after using modern English in my BBC-Sherlock fic! (Apologies for anyone waiting for that in the meantime, but Victorian Holmes was feeling neglected). _

_ Please do read and review – always appreciated._


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